The Lyrium Warrior
by cellostargalactica
Summary: "You said you never wanted this, but that's not true. You wanted it. You competed for it." Before he was Fenris, he was Leto; a slave who risked everything to compete for the chance to become a Lyrium Warrior.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: I'm not sure if this has been done before, but I always found myself curious about Fenris and his life before he lost his memory, more specifically what he did to become a Lyrium warrior. For the sake of this story, I borrow a bit from Latin- specifically 'bellator', which means warrior. **

**Small warning for mention of rape.**

_"You said you never wanted this, but that's not true. You wanted it. You competed for it. When you won, you used the boon to have mother and I freed."_

_"Why are you telling me this?"_

_"Freedom was no boon. I look on you now and I think you received the better end of the bargain."_

"Leto!"

His master's voice echoed through the foyer like a lash, and he flinched at the violence implicit in his master's tone. He sprinted across the enclosure as fast as he could, though he knew speed would not lessen his punishment now.

"Yes, master," he said, averting his eyes and bowing his head. The blow came so quickly he didn't feel it at first, though it almost sent him sprawling. Bright lights popped behind Leto's eyelids but he did not cry out.

"The day is not over and yet you are here instead of the docks. Pray, what is so important to take you away from your duties?"

Dishonesty did not usually occur to Leto, but he considered it now. The truth would not only result in more punishment for himself, but for Varania and his mother, and he had no intention of landing his family into trouble as well. "We processed the shipment early today. I thought I would return to help the others."

"I don't know what possessed you to think you could abandon your tasks. Return before you are punished further," his master warned, cold grey eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.

Leto didn't give his master a chance to say it again; he hurried off into the direction of the warehouse before his master could change his mind, but instead of running back to the docks he concealed himself in a bush, ignoring the thorns that scraped his skin. He waited until he saw Quendius glide through the front doors of the mansion before sprinting off in the direction of the kitchens.

It hadn't been a total lie; he had indeed processed the shipment from Carastes in record time. He had worked at his Quendius's dockside warehouse since he was old enough to lift a crate, and as the years passed he had become quite efficient at his work. He was tall for an elf, and his natural lankiness belied a strength well suited to menial labor.

But that was not what truly drew him away from the docks at this premature hour. There had been word from the kitchens that his mother had collapsed. Leto did not usually entertain thoughts of disobedience- he was nothing if not pragmatic- but little else would move him to it now.

Silently as he could manage in his fear, he snuck in through the service entrance of Quendius's estate, careful not to jar the door. Though he knew his master rarely if ever came this far back into the service quarters of his mansion, disobedience colored Leto's expectation; he half believed to see his master waiting behind every corner.

His heart beat a violent tattoo against his chest, but he sped toward the kitchens, towards the panicked voices he heard within. He threw open the door as quietly as he was able and had to stifle a shout as he saw her. His mother lay crumpled on her side, surrounded by the rest of the kitchen staff, including his sister.

He wasn't aware of crossing the room as quickly as he did, but in the next moment he was at his mother's side, pushing away Pal and cradling her head on his lap.

"Mother," he said, pressing a hand to her face. Her brow was hot to the touch.

Her eyes fluttered open. Had she always seemed so weak? Her skin was nearly translucent, and he could see the wandering path of her veins barely concealed there. Her breathing was ragged, and her chest rose and fell weakly from the effort.

"Leto," she whispered. "Why are you here?"

"I came for you," he said, attempting a smile for her.

She touched his cheek, still tender from Quendius's blow. "You got in trouble," she admonished, seeming to understand that it had been for her benefit.

"It wasn't so bad," he hedged.

"My Leto." Her voice trailed off and her eyes fluttered closed against some phantom pain.

"What's wrong with her?" Leto asked Pal, searching his face for explanation. "What can I do?"

But Pal shook his head. "There is little anyone can do now," he said. "She has the wasting. Only a magister could be of any help, and they won't bother for a slave."

The wasting! How could it be? How could it have progressed so far without his noticing? But as he looked down at Lea, he knew it for the truth. She had grown so thin in the last months, and she was always so wan, so exhausted. Of course, she had tried to hide it. Seeing her life as futile, she had attempted to keep her children free of worry from what consumed her now; how often had she rebuffed Leto and Varania for their concerns?

Behind him, Varania's breath hitched in a sob and his own eyes burned. If Lea wasn't a slave, she could pay to have herself cured by any magister in the Imperium. His own master undoubtedly possessed the skill to rid anyone of such a disease. Illness was a nearly unheard of cause of death for the magisters; murder was a far more common demise.

Leto looked to the windows, checking how many hours of daylight remained. The sun hovered over the edge of the horizon; a single, burning eye struggling to close. With excessive care, he tenderly gathered his mother up into his arms, careful not to jar her. She was so light, and he felt shame crowd at his heart. How had they not noticed?

"Can you get along without Varania?" he asked Pal quickly.

"Yes. I will lie if asked." Pal's mouth turned downward fiercely. "It wouldn't be the first time Maxilus borrowed your sister."

A lie with a history of truth; Leto felt the familiar rage choke at his heart. Quendius's son had taken an interest in his sister; an interest that was tolerated and sometimes even encouraged by the magisters. They were possessions, after all; just another tool to use whichever way they saw fit.

Leto swallowed the memory and the anger it evoked. "Thank you," he said to Pal. He nodded to Varania, who wiped her wide green eyes with shaking hands. Together, they snuck off in the direction of the slave quarters, praying they would remain unseen. The dying sunlight seemed somehow mocking to Leto.

The slave quarters of Quendius's estate were particularly shabby; a dozen or so huts scattered about the grounds as if an afterthought, as if it had come as some surprise that slaves required a place to live. Though he would never dare to say this aloud, Leto suspected the poor state of their slave quarters was another status symbol to the magisters; the poorer their slaves seemed to live, the more they must have to spend on their own needs and comforts.

Most of Quendius's slaves lived in groups, but Leto and his mother and sister were permitted to have the smallest shack to themselves. Once, there had been four of them, though that had been long ago.

Though his arms burned from a long day at the docks, Leto carefully laid Lea into the one cot they shared between them, mindful not to jostle her. At first, Lea had insisted her children take the cot, but as Leto grew older, he elected to have the floor instead. It was one of the few sacrifices he was permitted to make for her, considering he had little else to his name to give.

Varania had already begun heating a pot of tea; Leto saw that her eyes were oddly bright. The pot rattled in her badly shaking hands.

"Varania," he said.

His sister's response was a sob.

Leto did not hesitate; carefully as one can be with comfort, he folded his older sister into his arms and let her cry against his shoulder. She raged at the futility and indignity of it all, and he allowed it. She sobbed every minute of her hurt and frustration; at seeing their mother slowly die, at being unable to do a thing about it.

"What is the point?" she whispered brokenly.

Leto held her closer. His sister was often prone to fits of melancholia, not that he blamed her. There was little in their lives to be optimistic about. "I don't know," he said honestly. Usually it fell to him to encourage her from her bouts of pessimism but today he found he could not muster the will to do so. Perhaps their lives truly were as futile as Varania thought.

Varania broke away, wiping at her eyes again before pouring a cup of tea for Lea and bringing it to her shaking lips. She coughed wetly as she drank, her pale eyelids fluttering from the effort of it. A thin, claw-like hand came to rest over her chest. She had grown so small, Leto wondered. Were they so preoccupied with their own miseries that they had become blind to each other's?

As he sliced half rotten potatoes and carrots for the stew, he felt shame and fury claw its way through his heart. Out of their family, he knew his troubles were the least. He worked among the other healthy elves at the docks through most of the daylight hours. It constantly reeked of fish and salt, and the magisters tended to avoid it so he did not have to worry about being beaten. The stench of fish was hard to get out of one's clothes, after all, and he figured it was much more of a concern for a magister wearing fancy robes.

It was not so for his mother and sister. They were women; weak from years of thin living and easily preyed upon by the magisters. His mother hadn't been touched in many years, perhaps due to her age, but Varania was constantly a target, and as a result she had become meek and fearful. The last time she had come back to them half dead; bruises and cuts had marred her skin, and her eyes were far away.

Lea had sobbed at the sight of her only daughter, but it had taken both of them to restrain Leto in his impotent rage. He would have killed that disgusting creature himself. He could have easily ripped his heart from his chest for what he did, as easily as plucking a grape from a vine. He could have killed Maxilus many times over without a single care. It was only the thought of what would happen that stopped him; he would be executed for his crime, and his mother and sister would have no one to protect them then.

Not that he was even able to protect them as they deserved. His hands were bound by his status just as surely as theirs were.

He hadn't noticed Varania beside him, but she gently moved him aside so she could work over the stew. He squeezed her shoulder in wordless comfort as he left. He knew she found solace in active hands; they were alike in this way.

Lea was asleep, her breathing slow and even. Leto knelt beside her, brushing a strand of greying copper hair out of her eyes. A memory came to him then; when he had been a child he had become very ill with cholera. Though she must have known she'd eventually be caught skipping her duties, Lea had cared for him constantly and tirelessly. He didn't remember much from that time, save for the sight of her dipping in and out of his vision, carefully coaxing glass after glass of tea down his throat. He had recovered, somehow, because of the force of her care.

A childish part of Leto wanted to believe that it was the ardor in which he cared for his mother now that would save her, just has it had been when she saved him. He knew better, but he wanted to believe it anyway. It was far worse to accept that nothing could be done.

A sudden sound came from outside, and Leto's ear pricked; someone was there. He discerned many things quickly; it was not a magister, for a magister would make no effort to conceal their approach, and whoever was outside now did. A thief! Leto realized, and he jumped to his feet, grabbing the dulled sword that he kept by the door.

Outside, it was finally dark. There were no stars or moon above; the sky bore down on him thickly, like a blanket. Leto blinked hard to adjust to the light, holding his sword at the ready.

There! A shadowed figure crept away from the hut, a bundle of potatoes in its arms. Leto suppressed a snarl; that was all they had to eat for the entire week! Silently as a whisper, he crept behind the figure. So intent was he on his prize, the thief did not hear Leto's approach, and he yelped in shock when Leto jammed his blade into his ribs.

"Return what you have stolen," Leto hissed, livid.

The thief spun, dropping the potatoes as he went and drawing a knife he clenched in a reverse grip. He shot out, slicing the knife in a fierce diagonal motion, and it would have slit Leto's throat had he not jumped away, bringing his sword up to bear.

It was a dirty fight, fueled by two different kinds of desperation. The thief was hungry enough to kill whoever stood in his way, but Leto was not an easy mark. He dove and danced out of the way of the thief's jagged knife, slicing and jabbing in fierce return. He knew his sword was too dull to inflict any real damage, but he was also no novice when it came to swordplay.

With a tight arc, he slapped the broad side of his sword on the thief's wrist with enough force to knock the knife from his hand; it skittered many feet away. Leto didn't hesitate, then; he slammed his other fist into the thief's face hard enough to send him sprawling.

"Get out of here," Leto spat. "Do not return."

Clutching a broken nose, the thief scrambled to his feet and scurried away, in so much of a hurry that he left his knife behind. Leto tucked it into the waist of his pants before bending to gather up the spilled potatoes.

From a young age, he had studied swordplay and combat with one of the elder elves in Quendius's service. Oter had lived for many decades; some whispered that he was nearing one-hundred. When he had been a younger slave, he had been chosen to guard Quendrius's grandfather and he had protected the magister from the great many machinations to end his life. He was unmatched, even in his old age. He worked in the forge now, and although he had been expressly forbidden to teach the younger elves the ways of combat, he had made an exception for Leto when Leto's father had died.

Leto remembered that day for the hope it had given him in what had seemed to be the darkest of his young life. There had been no real funeral for his father but for the service held in the slave quarters. There had been no body for them to bury. Leto did not cry, even though he wanted to. He left the service to play outside in the mud.

Four of the older boys had come upon him then. They were at least six years older than Leto; teenagers furious with their lot in life and looking for an outlet for their frustration. They had jeered at Leto and thrown rocks at him, hoping to goad him into a fight that they could easily win.

They had not expected the ferocity in which Leto would retaliate. He had flown at them, snarling like a mad dog. He kicked and bit and rolled out of the way of their advances. He punched and scratched and howled the force of his rage; rage at the world, at the magisters, at these foolish boys who attacked him.

Oter had come upon them then, yelling for Leto to stop, for somehow this tiny child of seven had nearly defeated his four teenaged attackers. Oter snapped at the older boys to leave, but he turned his gaze on Leto, his bloody face and hands, his mussed hair, his wild eyes.

"You are a mad wolf," Oter had said. "Waiting for a chance to bite."

Leto had felt a smug sort of pride at the elder's words, but Oter shook his head. "It is not praise, my young wolf cub. Mad wolves know only their rage, and eventually it will defeat them."

"Not me," Leto had said.

At this, Oter had smiled, though it was a rueful thing. "How little you know. There is a small kind of freedom in being young and stupid."

Leto drew back in an indignant hiss, but before he could protest, Oter continued on. "If ever you decide you want to be more than a mad wolf cub, come to me. There are some things I might be able to teach you."

It had taken young Leto three days to take Oter up on his offer. The force of his pride and temper kept him at bay at first, and he simmered. What did that old man know of him, anyway? But as his fury ebbed, he grew curious. He knew what they said about Oter; that he was a warrior without peer. Oter had said he could be more than just a 'mad wolf', hadn't he?

Eventually Leto had trudged to Oter's hut, drive by curiosity but held back by his protesting pride; the old man had called him a mad wolf and young and stupid, and Leto could be quite supercilious when the mood struck him. Oter had laughed at the comically hang-dog expression on Leto's face.

"Oh, you're a stubborn mad-wolf, aren't you? I was wondering how long it'd take you to come to me."

That Oter had known Leto would eventually come rankled his already wounded pride, and he turned to storm away huffily, but Oter held him back.

"Don't be stupid, boy," he said amiably in his rough voice. "Now come. Let me show you a few things."

Those few things had turned into fourteen years of careful instruction in combat and the art of swordplay. Leto proved to be an apt student, growing from a tempestuous youth into a solid adult under the tutelage of Oter, sure and skilled. Lea always joked about it; that it was only Oter that had been able to temper her angry boy into the fine man he'd become.

Leto carefully set the potatoes by the door, unsheathing his sword and knife. He had been gone longer than he thought; time always seemed to slow when he fought, and after he had been thorough in his search for every last stolen potato. Varania dozed by the fire, two empty bowls on the floor next to her. Lea slept as well, lulled by the meal and the tea. Leto prayed that she would sleep through the night.

Varania stirred as she heard him enter, blinking at him owlishly. "Leto! What was it?"

"Just a cat," he lied. His sister had enough to worry about without fearing for thieves and bandits. "I chased it off."

"You were gone a long time," she said.

"I went for a walk after."

"Hmm," she said, her eyes drifting closed again. She would sleep the whole night in that flimsy chair by the fire if he didn't move her. Careful not to jostle her overmuch, he swept her up into his arms and carefully tucked her into bed next to Lea. Varania mumbled sleepily, wrapping her arms around Lea's frail waist.

He didn't bother to ladle the last dregs of stew into a bowl; there were only a few bites left anyway. He ate quickly, scraping the pot for every last bit of stew. Though instead of frustration and hunger, he felt pleased that at least Varania and Lea had enjoyed a decent sized meal for once.

* * *

><p>When Leto woke the next morning, his shoulder ached. Groggily, he worked it around a few times, trying to work out the stiffness. These last few weeks he had been sleeping badly, curling up into ridiculous positions. He had long given up on the idea of comfort, but he would have at least thought he'd be used to sleeping on the floor by now.<p>

Varania and Lea had already left for the kitchens. He cursed himself; he had meant to wake before them for once, if only to see how Lea felt this morning. He worried for them both, fear mixing with the usual sense of impotence; whatever was in store for the both of them, there was little he could do to improve upon it.

He stuffed a small hunk of bread in his mouth before leaving the hut, setting off toward the docks. The sun had not yet risen and the morning was cool, the sky a hazy slate grey. In the distance, he heard the plaintive cry of the gulls circling the approaching ship, eager for any bit of fish.

The others greeted him cursorily, and they set to work unloading the ship. The shipment was early today, and he thanked the Maker that he had woken when he did; it would have been terrible if he had slept through his duties.

The morning passed uneventfully. Leto lost himself in the solace that was labor; in a way, there was a kind of meditation to it. Busy hands kept his mind from straying to his usual thoughts, and he took a strange pleasure in the strain of moving and sorting cargo. He wasn't required to think much here, only to do.

At midday they were allowed a half hour to eat lunch. It was less out of a sense of courtesy, Leto knew, and more the fact that starving slaves were woefully ineffectual in their duties. As he usually did, Leto headed to the forge to eat with Oter. He preferred the company of the old warrior to those he worked with, who rarely spoke.

Oter had already finished his meal by the time Leto arrived, and he looked up at the approaching youth with an expression that was equal parts pity and understanding. "I heard about your mother," he said in a voice that had only become rougher as he aged.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

Leto nodded in acknowledgement; there wasn't much else to say. The wasting was a long and painful death for slaves, and it was a fact one had to come to terms with. He knew this was the way he should feel, but he couldn't help the strains of frustration that came through in his voice. "If she were a free citizen, she could pay to have a magister cure her."

"That is true," Oter agreed, watching Leto carefully.

"I don't understand," he said after a pause. "Why wouldn't a magister cure a slave? It costs money to replace us."

"The magisters would not see it as a worthy investment of their effort to save an old slave."

"So they'd rather spend real money than expend effort."

"Yes. A young slave can work harder and longer than an old one. You're worth much more to your master than I am," Oter said with a grin.

"We're worth exactly the same," Leto said stubbornly, though he knew Oter was right.

At this, Oter chuckled. "My stubborn wolf-cub. Though I pray you'll always keep your idealism, I know better."

Leto shook his head. "I just wish I could do something," he said, staring at his hands.

"Impotence is a bitter pill we've all had to swallow."

"Yes, I know. Though that doesn't stop me from feeling useless for it."

Oter smiled again, looking at Leto fondly. "I was hoping you'd stop by today, Leto."

"I always come for lunch."

"Yes, I know, but I've learned not to take things for granted in my old age." He nodded toward the wall, where a very official looking document was nailed. "Do you see that paper there?"

Leto regarded it cursorily. "I can't read."

"Neither can I. I think sometimes our fool masters forget we're fool slaves with only as many skills as they deign us worthy to have." Oter grinned. "The man who posted it told me what it said though. Today in the hour past midday there is to be a grand announcement to all the slaves of this compound."

He had heard of this already; one of the overseers had barked that the slaves were to meet in the foyer after the midday meal. "What about?" Leto asked.

"There is to be a competition between slaves for a great honor."

Honor for slaves? Leto was instantly suspicious. "That sounds like just another one of their stupid games."

Oter chuckled. "Who taught you to be so skeptical?"

"You did!"

"Oh, that's right. I did, didn't I? What a wonderful student you were."

Despite everything, Leto grinned. "I was taught by the best."

"Yes, yes, you know how to butter up an old man. Anyways, it does seem like one of their stupid games, but I can tell you it's not."

"How?"

"Because the _Lyrium Bellator _is not a joke, boy."

The name meant little to Leto, but he could tell it was something of great importance just by the tone of Oter's voice. It spoke of awe . . . and fear.

"What is _Lyrium Bellator?"_ he asked, his voice suddenly more reverent.

Oter leaned back in his chair, crossing his wiry arms across his thin chest. "It's a legend, boy. In the days of the Imperium when it was at its fullest in might, it was said that there was a legion of warriors marked by the lifeblood of magic itself; lyrium. They knew no equal, and in the name of the Imperium they conquered many."

Leto was stunned. "This competition is to become a Lyrium warrior?"

"Yes."

Leto didn't say anything for a moment. "What use is such a competition to me?" he said finally. "What use would winning it be to my family?"

Oter shrugged. "That I do not know."

They lapsed into thoughtful silence again as they picked up and left for the foyer. The idea was intriguing, but as far as he was concerned, it didn't change anything about his life now. A small, prideful part of Leto desired the honor of becoming a Lyrium warrior, of besting his foes in combat and becoming a living legend. But it was folly. His family needed him now; his mother especially. He would not abandon them for the sake of his foolish pride.

Most of the Quendius's slaves had already gathered in the foyer, milling nervously as they waited. They were suspicious as Leto had been; the magisters rarely had true reason to deviate from their regular schedules, and oftentimes it was to inspect them or choose a slave for blood sacrifice.

Leto found Varania and Lea hanging toward the back of the crowd. Lea looked somewhat better than she had the day before, though exhaustion crowded her eyes. She smiled when she saw Leto and Oter approach.

They did not have to wait long. The doors to the estate burst open and Quendius strolled out followed by an official looking man bearing a heavy gilded scroll. The slaves murmured nervously as they watched the official unfurl the scroll with careful hands.

Without any preamble, the official began to read: "_Slaves of the city of Minrathous. In honor of the glory of the Tevinter Imperium and the magisters you serve a grand tournament will be held. The best of you will fight in single combat, and only the most worthy of you shall succeed. He who wins will have the distinct honor of becoming a _Lyrium Bellator, _the first in many centuries."_

If it had been a crowd filled with citizens instead of slaves, it would have broken into excited murmuring, but the slaves of Quendius remained dutifully silent until the official finished speaking, though Leto saw them exchange glances filled with many differing emotions. He squeezed Lea's hand.

The official continued on. "_In addition to the unimaginable honor of serving the Imperium as a _Lyrium Bellator, _the winner of this tournament will be granted a boon of his choosing. Anything the _Lyrium Bellator _asks of the Imperium, it will be granted, for we honor the _Lyrium Bellator_ as a living legend, despite his status as a slave."_

Leto felt his eyes go wide. A boon . . . _any _boon! It was as if the Maker had stretched down his hand to Leto and set him on the path. If this was no joke, and Oter had stressed that it was not, if he won he could ask anything of the Imperium. He could ask for the freedom of his family and the money they would need to cure his mother of the wasting. He decided in that instant.

_"Your master will be compensated for the loss of each slave through the revenue the competition provides, though if one of you becomes the _Lyrium Bellator,_ his honor will be tenfold. The competition will consist of a series of melee tournaments in the coliseum over the course of the next days. These matches will be fought to the death, so do not volunteer yourself without thought."_

Oter glanced over to Leto, and Leto sensed that the old man already knew what he meant to do. He smiled minutely and nodded, and for the first time in so many long and bleak years, Leto felt a sense of purpose. He wasn't a fool; he knew that he could easily die. But the chance to save his family was too great to turn away from out of fear.

"_If you believe you are of sound skill and body to compete, offer yourself now in the service of your master and the Imperium."_

No one moved; most of the slaves in Quendius's service were not fighters, save for perhaps his bodyguards. They were half starved and long since cowed into fear. But it was not fear that surged through Leto's heart now, but a sense of purpose fueled by a furious burst of adrenaline. Lea and Varania seemed now to notice the determination they saw in Leto's eyes, and they protested wordlessly. Lea's hand because a vice on his, and Varania's mouth moved in mute horror, but he didn't hear them. It was for them that he sacrificed himself now. After all, wasn't a small chance better than none?

He carefully detached himself from Lea's wild grasp and moved through the crowd, which parted easily for him. He came to a stop in the front of it and fell to his knees, bowing his head in supplication.

"I offer myself," he said, averting his eyes but speaking loud enough to be heard by all. "I offer myself in the name of my master and for the glory of the Imperium."


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Special thanks to paulaH and GJ, ms45, Shacary, and roxfox1962 for your awesome reviews and to everyone that faved and followed.**

**I hadn't meant to update so quickly, but I'm really kind of inspired by this idea, so I intend to ride out the inspiration as long as possible. **

**Thanks for reading everyone!**

Leto was the only one of Quendius's slaves to volunteer for the competition. It came as little surprise to him, as he had known these elves his whole life and none of them possessed any skill or inclination for fighting. None except for Oter, of course. The old man did not seem to have any interest in the competition, though Leto was certain he could win if he wanted to.

Quendius and the official waited for several minutes while his gathered slaves murmured amongst themselves. Some seemed to almost consider it, but in the end they seemed to value their lives more than the honor of fighting to become a _Lyrium Bellator. _

He saw the stark, pale faces of Lea and Varania in the crowd, watching him in mute horror. It began to dawn on him then that he might never see them again, and a sick pit of ice formed in his gut. The official had said that this tournament would be fought to the death; if he died, they would never know that he fought for them, for their freedom.

The sheer impulsiveness of his decision struck him like a physical blow then. What had he been thinking? Had he really believed it was possible for him, a flea-bitten slave, to best every other competitor in the bouts to the death? Had he really thought it was possible he would ascend to the apex of this competition without dying himself? It wasn't possible, he realized. He was fodder, and he would die like fodder.

At that moment, Quendius took him by the elbow and escorted him inside his estate, the official close on their heels. Was this a ruse? Was he to be punished now? Leto's thoughts spun out further and further in his panic and he felt his hands begin to shake. He barely saw the furnishings of the estate as they strode through the halls. Where were they going now? Why wasn't anyone saying anything?

They brought him to what looked to be an office, though Leto had never seen this room before. In truth, he had never been so deep into Quendius's manse in his entire life. When he was a child, he helped his mother in the kitchens. And when he had become old enough for real physical labor, he was banished to the docks.

The situation became beyond ludicrous in Leto's mind. He was nothing more than a simple dock worker. He'd done nothing but move boxes of fish every day since he had turned eleven. Whatever training Oter had given him suddenly seemed insignificant for the task he had stupidly volunteered for.

"I had expected more of my slaves to offer themselves," Quendius fretted to the official, looking contrite.

"They value their lives more than this one here. That is not a failing," the official replied in a curt voice. "What is this slave's occupation?"

"He is a dock worker. He unloads ships and sorts inventory in my warehouse." Quendius held up Leto's arm for inspection. "See his arms; very strong," he said, and then spun Leto around. "His back too- he's worked in my warehouses for ten years."

"He'll last a few rounds, at least." The official looked largely unimpressed as he scribbled unintelligibly on a scroll of vellum. "He's a bit scrawny for a warrior."

Quendius's expression contorted as if the official had personally insulted him instead of his slave. "Not scrawny! No, no, no. Lanky, perhaps."

Leto said nothing. The situation had become laughably surreal; it was as if he were a weapon, a piece of meat instead of a living creature. With a sudden burst of insight, he realized the ridiculous exchange had to do with the compensation his master would receive for his loss. The official wanted to pay low and his master was trying to convince him to go high. He felt a sudden insane urge to laugh aloud.

"Fifty sovereigns," the official said.

"You insult me with such a price. His dying mother would go for that much."

Leto flinched. So Quendius knew. Though he knew he shouldn't be surprised- his master was a mage and knew everything- it still came as a shock.

"His dying mother is not being offered up to become the _Lyrium Bellator. _The honor enough should be enough for you, Quendius."

"Your master can keep his pithy offers. Tell Danarius I will not be debased by such a ridiculously low price."

The official sighed. It occurred to Leto that he must have argued over prices for slaves with every magister in Minrathous, perhaps even beyond, and he felt a sudden wave of inexplicable sympathy. "Sixty."

"Seventy."

"Sixty-five and that is my final offer. Do not push your luck, Quendius."

His master let out a terse breath. "Sixty-five it is. I expect my money before I let my slave into your possession, Telandrius."

Telandrius produced a heavy gold pouch and positively shoved it into his master's hands. "Done."

"A pleasure doing business, and send my regards to your master," Quendius crowed delightedly, looking very much pleased with getting so much.

"A few logistical touches then before we leave. This slave is now officially the possession of Danarius, High Senator. The compensation you received is his buying price. In the event that this slave perishes, you are not owed any additional expense. In the event he becomes _Lyrium Bellator_ you will receive an additional compensation, and you will be permitted to negotiate ownership with one Danarius," the official said in one breath. "Sign."

Quendius signed his name with a ridiculous flourish, obviously still pleased with himself.

"Your slave will be housed by Danarius within the confines of his estate and the coliseum, and you may not have any contact with him hence." Telandrius pointed to another line. "Sign," he said, and Quendius did so, though looking less pleased by the minute.

"No contact?"

"You will be permitted no contact from this point forth. Danarius is wary of any magister attempting to give his former slave any hint of an advantage beyond what is deemed acceptable. If you've anything to say to him, now is your chance."

Quendius didn't take that chance. "What is acceptable?"

"This slave is allowed a retainer from one of your slaves or staff. Anyone who you believe will help him toward victory. Retainer and champion travel as a package from this point hence."

Quendius seemed to consider this, his expression becoming comical in its greed. "And how much more is the compensation should he become the _Lyrium Bellator?_"

Telandrius sighed. "Quite a bit more. Thousands more. It's a bit like gambling, isn't it?" he asked without humor.

Without replying to the official's irreverent sarcasm, Quendius stomped toward the door, slamming it open. There was a short yelp, and Quendius pulled someone close to him. "Bring me Oter!"

Leto nearly sobbed in relief. That Quendius not only would allow him to leave with a retainer but that the retainer would be Oter was almost too much to bear. At least if he died, he wouldn't be completely alone.

"The great Oter?" Telandrius said, looking impressed for the first time since he set foot in Quendius's manse. "Perhaps this slave has more of a chance than I thought."

Quendius's predatory smile widened. "Just so, just so." Something seemed to occur to him then. "Now, regardless of what happens to my slave-champion, his retainer will be returned to me, yes?"

"Yes, of course. The retainer comes along as an acceptable advantage, nothing more. He is still your slave."

"Good," Quendius said, his eyes narrowed in greed. "It's as you say- I wouldn't want the great Oter to be snatched up in this exciting business."

"No, I don't imagine you would," Telandrius said coolly, and Leto suddenly realized he was lying. Just what the official intended for him and Oter, he had no idea, but there was something he was not telling his former master.

Oter was escorted into the room then, and Leto's heart nearly burst in relief. He looked just as he always did; his expression cool, his lips turned upward into a casual smirk. To Leto, the old man was the only constant in the sudden storm his life had become, and he had to resist the urge to cling to him like a drowning man clings to a buoy.

"You have been selected as this young slave's retainer in the tournament to become the _Lyrium Bellator,"_ Telandrius said without preamble. "Do you accept?"

Quendius looked incredulous. "What are you asking him for? I offered him to you already."

Oter bowed his head, though the act seemed more insouciant than supplicant. "I am my master's to command. I will act as the boy's retainer if he wishes it."

"And I do," Quendius said with a hint of petulance.

"It is done then." Telandrius rolled up the contact and smartly stowed it in his robes. "I will be in touch- I believe Danarius wishes to share his private box with you."

"I would be honored," Quendius said, sounding thrilled at the prospect.

Telandrius nodded curtly and then swept from the room, Leto and Oter fast on his heels. It suddenly occurred to Leto that regardless of what happened to him now, he would probably never serve Quendius again. He would either die in this tournament or succeed and fall into the service of this Danarius.

Telandrius turned back to Leto when they had strode through the doors into the harsh sunlight. "I am not without pity. If you have a family to say goodbye to, I will wait here for three minutes."

Leto didn't react at first, expecting a trick. Humans and magisters rarely showed his kind any sincere consideration; these overtures were usually a ruse, and there was punishment should he do as they ask. Telandrius seemed to understand this for he smiled briefly, though it was an ironic thing. "It isn't a trick, slave. Say your goodbyes and do not make me wait."

He knew distrust was still plain on his face, but he did not wait to give this man a chance to change his mind. He spun wildly, searching for his family amongst the still gathered elves. Any minute now Quendius would exit the mansion and bark at them all to return to their duties.

Leto saw them, then; their faces grieved and horrified, and he felt another hot surge of guilt threaten to overwhelm him. He rushed toward them as fast as he could, ignoring the murmuring of the other elves. Lea's hands shook as she grasped his own, and he saw tears rush down Varania's face.

"Why?" Lea whispered, and Leto's heart broke. He should have known they wouldn't understand. How must it have looked to them? Perhaps they believed he had finally given up on them and sought any glory or escape that he could.

"It's for you," he whispered fiercely. "I will use the boon to see you cured and freed."

"My son," Lea said, her lips white and trembling. "I am an old woman, and you are young. My time is over. Why sacrifice yourself for our benefit?"

Shame burned in Leto's eyes. "I have failed as a son if you truly do not know." His hands shook from the force of what he suddenly felt, the intensity in which it rushed at him. "I love you both. I would give anything to see you safe and free from this terrible place."

Varania crossed her arms tightly over her chest. "And what if you fail, brother? You will have thrown your life away for nothing!" Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.

Leto looked over at Telandrius, who was beginning to look impatient, and he knew he did not have any time left to make them understand. "I couldn't do anything for you here except watch you suffer. But in this I have a chance to change things for you."

"My brave son," Lea sobbed, and he gathered them into his arms quickly, holding them close. Their tears soaked the front of his shirt and he felt his own eyes burn. He doubted himself then. He doubted his ability to leave them alone, with no one to watch over them. He doubted this purpose; what good would he do them if he was killed?

But as he broke away and fell into step behind Telandrius, as he watched his mother's and sister's tear-stained faces fade into those of the crowd, as he and Oter stepped up into a filthy horse drawn cart bound for Danarius's manse, he resolved to himself that he wouldn't fail. He couldn't, not now.

* * *

><p>Telandrius visited six more magisters that day, and managed to recruit twenty-two more elves for the competition; all piled into the filthy horse-drawn cart. Leto and Oter claimed a single corner, somehow apart from the rest of the elves gathered. They didn't speak aloud, but communicated instead through glances and quirks of the brow; a language they had long perfected through many hours of training.<p>

Leto found himself watching the faces of the other elves. They were young, like him, and some were half starved and beaten badly. Their expressions were an interesting range; varying between hard-bitten desperation, abject fear, and outright bloodthirstiness. Leto wondered what inspired them to volunteer to compete. Did they seek the glory of becoming a living legend? Were they more attracted to the boon the _Lyrium Bellator_ gained for himself? Or had they been forced by crueler masters than Leto's?

With a jolt, Leto realized he would have to kill most of the elves gathered here to survive. His stomach rolled and he felt bile burn his throat.

What had he been _thinking?_ He'd never killed a man in his life! For all his confidence and pride in his skills as a swordsman, he'd never had to truly put them to the test in a fight for his life. He'd never had to sink his blade in the chest of another man in order to survive. He felt very young then; very young, sick, and stupid.

Almost as if he knew what Leto was thinking, Oter squeezed his shoulder and there was more comfort in that one gesture than he had ever known in his life. He let out a shaky breath, struggling to control his cowardly thoughts.

Oter was here. Oter would help see him through this. Somehow by the grace of the Maker, he was allowed to keep Oter to himself. The great Oter, who had protected Quendius IV through almost thirty years of assassination plots; that terrible old magister had outlived all his enemies and died of extreme old age. The great Oter, who was the closest thing to a father Leto had ever known.

It was nearly dusk when they finally arrived at Danarius's manse. The sky was red as blood, and to Leto it seemed oddly prophetic. Even the sun could bleed now.

With a mighty grunt, Telandrius threw open the doors of the cart and barked at the slaves to move their sorry hides. Some had been sitting in the cart for the entire day, and they could hardly move.

A younger elf boy of about fourteen with giant blue eyes and milk white hair tripped and fell badly, scraping against the gravel of the ground. He didn't move for many moments, and when he finally lifted his head Leto saw his face was wet with blood and tears. No one stopped to help him; it occurred to Leto that everyone already understood they were enemies. He prayed he would not have to meet the pathetic boy in combat.

Whatever pity Telandrius had showed Leto back at Quendius's estate seemed to have evaporated; he urged them through the grounds without a second thought to those that stumbled and fell. Conversely, Oter seemed to have no trouble and Leto found himself amazed at the old man's hardiness; he moved faster and surer than those who were half a century younger than him.

They slowly filed into Danarius's mansion and Leto felt his eyes go wide; this mansion was far nicer than anything his master had ever owned. The very floors themselves gleamed so brightly that they seemed to throw reflections. The walls were adorned with expensive paintings and relics, the likes of which Leto had never seen. Whoever this magister was, he was very rich and very powerful to have amassed so much luxury and wealth.

They were nothing if not good slaves; though the wait for this mysterious Danarius was long they did not fidget or whisper amongst themselves. They stood like watchful statues, no one making a sound, no one protesting in any way. Not even the pathetic boy; he bled and cried in total silence.

At last, Telandrius reappeared and behind him was a magister Leto had never seen before. He assumed this was Danarius; he was an older man, with long greying hair and the beginnings of a beard. His eyes were the palest grey Leto had ever seen, which gave the man an oddly far-seeing affect. Leto shuddered when Danarius's gaze fell on him; it seemed as if the man could peer directly into his mind with those odd eyes.

As Danarius's gaze roved over the gathered elves, his lips parted into a skeletal smile. "Welcome, my champions," he said in a soft voice that somehow still managed to carry. "It is my honor to have you here."

Leto had to actively suppress the incredulous expression that threatened to take over his face. Was this man joking? What honor was there for hosting flea-bitten filthy slaves? He supposed the magister meant it was an honor to meet the elf who would become the _Lyrium Bellator, _but his words still seemed cruelly mocking. He felt his eyes narrow.

"You were mere slaves before you came to me- laborers and crafters- but now you are champions, and you fight for the greatest honor a slave can achieve- the _Lyrium Bellator!"_

He paused as if expecting the gathered slaves to cheer, but no one was that foolish. They knew their places, perhaps better than this odd magister who spoke to them as if they were more than slaves. Leto was still convinced that this man spoke in jest.

"You will fight elves from all corners of the Imperium. You will fight before all the eyes of the Imperium. The one who succeeds will be the glory of the Imperium, and your existence will serve as a validation of our might. You will serve as a sign for the return of the old days."

Oter made a small sound then- an almost inaudible 'huh', as if several pieces fell into place. Leto watched him questioningly but he shook his head quickly and nodded back to the magister, gesturing to pay attention.

"You will be housed by me, in a dormitory by the coliseum, along with the other champions gathered from provinces from all over the Imperium. You and your retainers will be fed and cared for as befitting your status as champions. And starting tomorrow, you will fight to earn the honor of becoming the _Lyrium Bellator._

_"_Fight well, my champions! _Na via lerno victoria!"_ Danarius said as he bowed to them, positively beaming. The elves stirred uncomfortably and Leto felt his jaw drop; never in his life had a magister bowed to him! What kind of game was Danarius playing?

As quickly as they had come, they were ushered from Danarius's gleaming mansion and herded back up into the cart. Leto hardly had time to wonder what the point had been to make a stop at Danarius's mansion; he only wanted to talk to them? Why? They were all going to die soon enough- what was the difference?

The trek up the Senatorial Way was not as long as Leto had expected and before long they had veered off into the Entertainment district. The coliseum loomed in the distance like a hovering beast, broad and stooped with power and age. He had never seen the coliseum before in his life, and despite his fear it was an awesome sight. It had been built in the old empire, when the Imperium stretched from one corner of the earth to the other, when the magisters had the power to usurp heaven in the name of the Old Gods.

They were unloaded from the cart again and herded into a giant antechamber connected to the great coliseum. It was made of ancient stone, kept fastidiously excellent repair by thousands of slaves like him, he knew. Behind every gleaming face of the Imperium, Leto could see the hands that kept it so, and they were like his own.

Before now he had no scope as to this grand competition, but as he was led through the halls of the dormitory, he realized that Danarius had not been exaggerating; there were 'champions' here from every corner of the Tevinter Imperium, more than Leto could even count. There were pale elves from the south, with fair hair and skin and quick, deadly hands. There were elves from the tropical north, their skin dusky from years of constant sunlight. And constantly dogging their steps and guarding their rooms were heavily armed men with steely warning in their eyes; here to keep the champions from killing each other outside of the ring.

This was no dormitory, Leto realized. This was a prison. Again, he half wondered if the competition was nothing more than a joke, a lie. No, of course not, he coached himself. This man Danarius had paid his master and thousands of other masters to have these slaves. His mind staggered at the thought of how much money this Danarius had expended so far in his search for the _Lyrium Bellator._

Leto and Oter were pushed through the hallways into a tiny cell with two piles of straw within. A guard tossed a bucket inside with them before slamming the barred door shut. "You and your retainer live here now," he said in a bored voice, as if he had said the same thing again and again for many days. "You'll be examined and processed in the morning, and your first fight is in the afternoon. For the glory of Tevinter." With that, their guard clunked away to sort the next champion and retainer.

No one moved or said anything for a few moments, and Leto felt the horror of the situation threaten to engulf him totally. He sank down on the bed of straw and buried his face in his hands. A thousand reactions and worries swam through his thoughts, and he didn't know how to process them all; he was completely adrift, utterly overwhelmed.

"If you're going to vomit, boy, do so in this bucket," Oter said easily, nudging the bucket toward Leto with his foot.

Leto shook his head, ignoring this. "I'm so sorry," he whispered.

Oter laughed. "What for?"

"For getting you into this." There, that was part of it. In the murk of his swirling thoughts, shame was definitely one of them.

"What are you talking about?" Oter sunk down on his bed of straw with the sprightliness of a much younger man. "I can't remember the last time I slept on anything besides a stone floor." He grinned, settling into the straw. "Very nice."

Leto refused to be comforted, though the straw was a nice touch. "This is a prison!" he hissed. "I shouldn't have gotten you into this."

Oter glanced at him speculatively. "Are you upset because you got me into this? Or are you upset because you got yourself into this?"

"Both," Leto said honestly. That was another swirling thought; he was a dock-worker, not a warrior, and he'd never killed a man. "What was I thinking?" he hissed, his hands becoming clawlike against his face.

"You weren't. You've always thought with your heart instead of that head the Maker gave you."

It was a rather succinct assessment of the problem. "You're right . . . I didn't think. I just heard the word 'boon' and made up my mind right there." He slammed his fist against his knee. "What good am I to them dead?"

"You aren't," Oter replied.

Leto stared at the old man incredulously. "Your honesty is always appreciated," he said bitterly.

"Well, I'd say the solution is simple enough."

"And that is?"

"Don't die! Of course, that's easier said than done, isn't it?"

"I'd say so." In his torment, Leto had become oddly detached and sardonic.

"That's what I'm here for, though." Oter grinned. "And pardon me for saying so, but these other 'champions' don't have the training I've given you as a resource."

Leto paused. This was true. But the torment returned almost tenfold in the next moment, and he turned away, his expression pained. "I've never killed anyone," he whispered in horror. "I can't do it."

"You will if you want to survive, boy." Oter's voice had become hard as a diamond's edge.

"I'm not a murderer!" Leto said hotly.

Oter sighed, and for half an instant his eyes were very far away. "We're all murders, Leto. All of us."

"What do you mean?" Leto asked, shocked by Oter's sudden change in demeanor.

"Whether we kill another man or something he loves, we're all murderers. You can't exist without destroying something."

It was the most fatalistic thing Leto had ever heard. "I don't believe that," he said stubbornly.

"It doesn't matter. You've gotten yourself into this tournament and I'm going to do my best to get you through it." Oter looked as if he wanted dearly to add to that thought, but he seemed to think better of it.

"I-thank you." Leto was shamed by the old man's care, and he bowed his head.

"If you're going to survive to free your family, you need to understand one thing; you're not fighting people in that ring."

"What are you talking about? Of course they're people."

"No, boy. You'll be fighting a desperate man, a creature who wants nothing more than to live. Maybe he'll want it more than you do. Don't show him mercy, because he'll show you none."

Leto knew Oter spoke the truth, but there was a part of him that didn't want to hear it. He shook his head and closed his eyes, as if he could shut himself away from the realization he knew he would have to accept in the morning.

They didn't speak again, and after a time Leto heard Oter's breathing slow and deepen into the rhythms of sleep. There was no sky to see here; only stone above. And as Leto curled into his bed of straw, he mourned the loss of his family and his idealism. He mourned the loss of what he had once thought he'd known- the loss of himself.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Special thanks to mille libri, Shacary, roxfox1962, and paulaH and GJ for your awesome reviews, and to everyone else that faved and followed.**

**This chapter was really intense to write; I'm wondering if it's as intense to read. Huge warnings for violence. **

**Reviews are much appreciated! Thanks for reading.  
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Leto slept fitfully through the night. He was deeply unsettled, and almost at the edge of his perception he thought he heard hushed weeping, which scraped at his nerves like a saw. He found himself longing pitifully for the hard floor of the hut he had lived in all his life, where the only sounds that could be heard at night were the soft breathing of his mother and sister and the crackling of the fire.

Hardly any time seemed to have passed before it was dawn; whatever rest or dreams that Leto had once found in sleep eluded him in this place. The din in the dormitory was terrible, and at first Leto tried desperately to block it out, burying his head deeper in the foul smelling straw. Shouts and screams assailed his ears, jeering laughter and wails of indignation echoed through the labyrinthine halls.

"Wake up," he heard Oter say, nudging him gently. "They're coming for you."

Leto bit down on the childish protests he felt bubble within him. He had chosen this for himself; it would not do to lie in his bed of straw and whine. He rolled to his feet without a word and Oter nodded at him approvingly.

"Are you ready?" Oter asked him.

Leto found he couldn't lie, not even for Oter. He shook his head.

"Yes you are," Oter said, taking him by the shoulders and shaking him a bit. "You will be."

"Yes, Oter," he said. His voice scraped past his throat like a rusty hinge. He felt as if he hadn't spoken in decades, as if he had aged fifty years overnight.

Oter's eyes narrowed. "Pull yourself together, boy. You don't have time for this nonsense."

"Yes, Oter." He found he lacked the presence of mind to argue.

Before Oter could hiss something in return, the barred door flew open. "Retainer, head to the mess. 'Champion', come with me," the guard said in a bored voice. His hand clamped around Leto's upper arm like a steel vice, and before he could find his feet the guard had yanked him from his cell, dragging him down the hall.

No! He wasn't supposed to be separated from Oter! He tried to protest but couldn't find his voice, and as he watched Oter trudge down the hall in the opposite direction at the urgings of another guard, he felt his heart sink.

The guard emptied every cell on his level, sending the champions in one direction and the retainers in the other. Behind him, he heard disgusted muttering; two pale-skinned elves spoke quickly to one another with their heads together, eyes never leaving the front of the line, fair hair almost blending together.

"Feeding the retainers and not the fighters . . ." one said.

"What kind of game is this?" the other hissed back.

"Should have never left Kirkwall for this nonsense."

"Too late for that now, Ren."

Together, their gazes snapped to him, eyes narrowing to the same degree, so that Leto half wondered if they were twins.

"What are you looking at, _lupo?_" the first snarled at him.

Leto bristled at the term. It was an offensive slur the southerners slung at the northerners, a jibe towards their naturally olive complexions, dark hair, and earthy eyes. It literally meant wolf, but the intention was closer to 'cur'. He spun away, his cheeks burning with sudden temper.

The Marcher elves were more careful to continue their conversation in lower tones, and Leto did not attempt to listen in again, though their insult bounced through his thoughts for some time after.

The elves were corralled into a line which slowly moved down the hallways and into a cavernous room the likes of which Leto had never seen. He peered up above into the high reaches of the room, the nearly unreachable corners of the ceiling, and wondered how one would wash them. How was this room kept so perfectly clean?

The din was unimaginable. Officials dressed much like Telandrius from the day before strode through the hordes of elves, stripping them, measuring them, checking for disease and injury, all the while scribbling their findings on messily unfurled vellum. Were all these elves expected to fight today? Which one would Leto battle? He found himself scanning the faces of every elf gathered, wondering their names, wondering of their families . . .

"You!" a guard yelled at him, his brows furrowed in a straight line. "Move!" His finger jammed in the direction of a waiting official, who Leto immediately recognized as Telandrius. He sped off in his direction, weaving through the chaos.

"Strip your clothes," Telandrius said in a bored voice, and Leto fumbled to comply. His pants were tattered- no real loss- but his shirt he hesitated to part with, as it had been stitched by his mother. He pulled it over his head unwillingly, shedding his pants and underclothes as quickly as he could and depositing them in the pile.

"Name," the official demanded.

"Leto," he replied quickly, trying to control the shivers of shame and fear that rippled up his legs.

"Former master."

"Quendius VI."

At this, Telandrius's eyes drifted up from his parchment, suddenly marginally more interested than before. "Yes, I remember you." His expression became shrewd. "Oter the great is your retainer."

"Yes," Leto replied promptly. He knew Oter was somewhat famous for his service to Quendius IV, but he was starting to wonder at the magnitude of that fame.

"We'll see if he is any help to you here," Telandrius said, sounding bored again. He measured Leto from head to toe and across the breadth of his arms, quickly scrawling intelligible shapes on his vellum. He measured across Leto's chest, and he tried not to shiver as Telandrius's cold fingers brushed his skin.

Telandrius prodded at his neck and examined his mouth, checking for tumors and disease. He poked sharply at his abdomen and buttocks, and Leto clamped down on his growing temper and indignation. He was a slave and used to almost daily beatings at the hands of his master, but this business in humiliation was another matter entirely. Pride, his last true defense, had been stripped away here.

With a furrowed brow, Telandrius finished his examination and scribbled the last bit of information in a hasty flourish. "Go," he said without looking up. As Leto bent to retrieve his clothes, however, his eyes flashed up. "Leave those. They will be burned."

Leto felt his jaw snap open in fury; these were the only clothes he had to his name! Indeed, they were the only belongings he had at all, and that shirt had been stitched specifically for him by Lea. But he knew better than to question a human, regardless of his status. He mashed his lips together in a tight line and bowed his head.

Telandrius regarded him, amused. "That temper will serve you well, you know."

Leto didn't say anything, watching his feet instead. But Telandrius did not immediately dismiss him, so that Leto wondered if he was supposed to say something in response. The official's expression was speculative and intense, as if trying to see through the barrier of Leto's skin.

"Proceed through that way," Telandrius said, gesturing with the point of his quill through the opposite doorway. "For the glory of Tevinter." His voice was almost mocking.

Leto fell into step with another group of processed elves being escorted through the hallways by a handful of guards. The guards jeered and laughed at the naked slaves, poking and slapping them as they went, and each elf stared ahead as if the guards were not there. As if they were not there themselves.

Wasn't this competition supposed to be an honor? The highest honor an elven slave could attain within the Imperium? Leto never would have guessed from the way their 'hosts' treated them here; mocking them ruthlessly, beating them, and laughing, constantly laughing, as if the idea of an elven slave attaining any kind of honor was nothing more than a foolish joke.

"Look at this knife-ear here," one guard jeered, seizing Leto around the arm and spinning him to face the other guards. "He smells like fish!"

The guards laughed hysterically, as if a slave smelling like the docks where he worked was something to be ashamed of. Leto kept his eyes down, hoping to hide the sudden burn of furious temper that coursed through him. Of course he'd known it'd be like this; hadn't his first instinct upon hearing of the _Lyrium Bellator_ tournament been that it was just another one of their jokes? And yet he had still volunteered; what manner of fool was he?

The guard seized him by the chin and forced his jaw up to eye level. "Oh, look here! This knife-ear has a temper!" he mocked.

"You going to hit him, knife-ear?" another yelled. "Go on; hit him and see what happens!"

Leto's hand itched, as if his body were truly considering lashing out in his impotent and foolish rage. But he mastered himself, closing his eyes and turning his head back down.

Sensing a weaker target elsewhere, the guard drifted away, and their progress through the eternal hall continued. Leto's eyes burned. He thought of Lea and Varania, as if the memory of them were a banner, a talisman. He was here for them, he reminded himself. So they could be free and happy. He would endure any manner of abuse to see them free.

The hallway led to an outdoor atrium, and Leto blinked in the scouring sunlight, trying to adjust his eyes to the sudden painful brightness. The ground beneath his feet was a filthy muck; the fetid mud seemed to radiate its own heat against his skin. And at the side of the enclosure were rows and rows of wide barrels filled with water. Leto understood then; they were to be bathed now.

"Over here!" one of the mocking guards called to a bucket-bearer. "This one smells like the docks!"

The bucket-bearers seemed to have heard it all at this point, but they gathered up the elves into one tight cluster and then with a mighty heave upended the bucket over their heads. Ice cold water rushed around Leto and for one wild second, he felt as if he would drown; the cold pierced him like a thousand blades pressed over every inch of his flesh, and he held his breath, ignoring the vehement protest of his lungs.

Though it was summer in Minrathous and always hot as the sun, Leto shivered violently, trying desperately not to hyperventilate and give the terrible guards something else to mock. Mock they did, however; laughing hysterically at the miserable, shivering elves.

Without waiting for the elves to compose themselves, the guards pushed them to the opposite side of the atrium, where another group of servants and officials were waiting. As if they had been doing the same thing for weeks, they shoved a rough bundled into Leto's arms and instructed him to proceed through to the mess hall for a meal.

Leto nearly sobbed with relief, pulling the trousers provided over his hips and yanking the shirt over his head as quickly as he was able. The clothing was made of burlap and he still shivered from that cruel bath, but it was a relief to be clothed again, instead of naked and herded through these high halls like an animal.

He nearly sprinted into the mess, searching wildly for Oter. There were so many elves here, he observed dizzily. His stomach clenched like a fist when he remembered what he would have to do here in order to survive. And yet, though he screamed at himself not to, he found himself watching their faces, their mannerisms. He found himself mourning anew.

And then he saw him; he was slightly stooped, huddled in a far corner close to the exit. Leto understood why; Oter always positioned himself in a room where he could observe every other person there. He never left his back open to another creature, man or beast. And he always left himself an easily accessible exit.

Leto absentmindedly grabbed a bowl of colorless mush and then hurried to Oter's side, positively trembling with momentary relief.

"There you are," Oter said mildly. His bowl was hardly touched, but he regarded Leto with an encouraging smile. "Eat up."

Leto took a careful seat beside Oter, huddling close. "What is this?" he asked.

"Some kind of cooked grain. You need to eat."

Suddenly, the last thing Leto wanted to do was eat. His stomach rolled at the sight of the mushy paste in his bowl.

Oter clapped him hard on the shoulder. "Keep your stomach, boy. You need to eat if you're going to be on your best."

Leto nodded, shoveling a spoonful of mush into his mouth and swallowing, trying desperately to ignore the protests of his stomach.

The sun poured in through the high windows and in the distance Leto heard cheering. The coliseum, he realized dimly. The spectators were arriving for the fights.

"Don't," Oter warned, noticing the sick cast to Leto's features. "Don't think. Don't feel. Just react."

"Oter," he whispered miserably. "How- how can I justify this?"

"I don't know what you mean, boy."

"How can I still be a good person and do this?" Leto said as the cheers outside reached a fever pitch, wailing in wanton delight. He realized the fights must be close to starting.

Oter leaned forward, regarding Leto intensely. "Would you say I'm a good person?"

"Without a doubt."

Oter smiled, showing finely worn teeth. "Do you know how many people I've killed in the name of my master?"

"No."

"Not just the odd magister who threatened him, either. Sometimes I killed kids like you, all because I was ordered to."

Leto shook his head. "You wouldn't have done it if you weren't ordered. I volunteered myself for this."

"And you're so sure I wouldn't have?"

"Yes," Leto replied firmly.

"Ah, then you think much better of me than I deserve." Oter twirled his wooden spoon idly in his gnarled fingers. "If you need to feel like a good man even though you must kill to survive, remember why you decided to do this in the first place."

And so he did. He saw his mother; her eyes clenched shut against the phantom pain that coursed through her body. He saw his sister, bruised in more ways than one, struggling with a stiff upper lip. He saw their tiny hut, their rotten food, their constant days of endless toil without relief or reward. He felt his heart sear with love for them.

"It wasn't for glory, was it?"

"No," Leto said.

"There you have it," Oter said easily. "Just remember, boy. React. Survive. Feel bad about it only when you're out of that ring. Feel bad only after you win."

They lapsed into uneasy silence, Leto pushing the disgusting mush around in his bowl. The sounds of steel on steel floated through the windows now, chased by the ecstatic screaming of the crowd. It was almost a constant drone now, and Leto found himself distantly wondering just how large this crowd was.

It seemed as if hardly any time had passed at all when another guard came to round both of them up. "Leto and retainer, this way," he said, reading from a schedule with an expression of impatient distaste.

Leto's stomach plunged and twisted and he felt a cold sweat bead at his brow. This was it, then. They were going to suit him up, give him a weapon, and shove him into the ring. What manner of monster would he have to fight? He couldn't decide if he was more terrified to lose his first fight and die or win and have to kill.

He wondered who he'd be made to fight. One of the Marcher elves? One of the elves he had travelled with as they met Danarius? He tried not to think of it. Behind him, Oter reached out and squeezed his shoulder, and there was more support in the gesture than Leto knew how to process.

The guard brought them to a shoddy armory and set about dressing him quickly. They armored him in a suit of a rusty chainmail several sizes too big and Leto realized with some indignation that they hadn't even bothered to acquire armor sized for an elf. It fit his length well enough, but was much too wide for his frame.

The guard brought him a heavily worn greatsword that was almost as tall as Leto was himself, and he blanched. "I don't fight with greatswords," he said as the guard shoved it into his hands.

"You do now, knife-ear," he spat. "You too good for what you're given?"

Leto didn't respond, though his cheeks burned with temper. Any beliefs that he entertained about this competition being a true chance for a slave to achieve an honor for the Imperium vanished; this was nothing more than a farce. Dressing elves up in armor fit to men and arming them with weapons they didn't know; a cruel joke.

They herded him through the lower chambers now; a labyrinthine maze. Above, he could faintly hear the shouting of the crowd, dimmed by several feet of earth. It was dark here, and quieter than Leto had felt in what seemed to be several eternities. He quietly longed for the simplicity of the docks; the salty brine that clung to the air, comforting as any fancy perfume. He longed for the mindless ease of moving boxes from one place to another.

The angle of the earth veered sharply upward, and they ascended to the main level. Sunlight slowly permeated the earthy halls, and Leto closed his eyes. As if his ears had suddenly been uncovered, the insane din of the crowd seemed almost to assault him. And just before them, beyond that one last gate was the coliseum ring.

"That weapon is your sword and shield," Oter was muttering to him. "Your entire body is the strength behind its blows. Use your weight for momentum, and save your strength to recover and defend."

Leto nodded blankly. Sword and shield. Momentum. Recover and defend. The colorless mush from breakfast churned in his stomach, and he felt it burn against his throat.

A drawn out scream fading into a wet gurgle could be heard from the ring, and then the cheering of the crowd rose to a fever pitch. Someone had won and someone had died. Leto's hands shook.

Oter noticed. "Pull yourself together," he hissed in Leto's ear. "Don't think. Don't feel. React."

Leto nodded. React. React. Don't think. How could he not think? He ransacked his mind numbly, searching for the place where his thoughts no longer assailed him, where guilt and fear could not find him. He saw faces, spinning through his vision in one frantic reel.

"Go," the guard barked to him as the gate slowly creaked open, metal scraping on metal.

"Survive," Oter rasped one last time, and then he was gone, slowly fading into the darkness of the antechamber. Leto searched for him as his legs blindly propelled him forward, but he was nowhere to be seen.

The first thing he noticed was the brightness of the sun. He squinted against the scouring blaze, blinking quickly to adjust his eyes. The roar of the crowd was deafening, impossible. He vaguely wondered if he would go deaf from the furious din. Thousands, hundreds of thousands of people screamed above him, watching him progress into the pit with a single desire.

Blood, Leto realized. The crowd screamed for blood. His or his opponent's; they didn't care.

Across the enclosure stood his opponent, clad in ridiculously oversized leathers, two rusted daggers clenched in his trembling hands. With a sickening realization, Leto recognized his opponent as the pathetic boy who had fallen from the horse cart the day before. His face had scabbed badly; the scrapes over his cheek and forehead looked like open wounds in the impossibly bright sun. His eyes were wide with terror.

There was no preamble or flowery introduction. Leto dimly understood why; what point was there to attach the crowd to a particular fighter when he could be easily cut down in these preliminary rounds? It was just as he had suspected at first; they were fodder, here only to whet the crowd's appetite for blood sport.

_**"FIGHT!" **_came a voice from above, amplified by magic. Leto brought his sword up to bear, watching the boy across from him hold his daggers in front of him as if they were explosive. Derisive laughter trickled through the crowd, mixing with the shouts and jeers.

He hesitated. His heart beat fearful rhythms against his chest. He waited.

The boy did too.

The derisive laughter became a single, impatient shout, echoing through Leto's skull. "FIGHT!" they screamed as one. "FIGHT!"

The boy staggered forward, visibly shaking from head to toe. Didn't the fool realize he had the advantage here? Daggers were easy to slip around a giant, cumbersome sword. He felt anger simmer along the edges of his thoughts; he suddenly felt a swell of resentment toward this pathetic creature.

He charged, using his entire weight to accelerate the blow. It came whistling through the air toward the boy's head, but he screamed and rolled under it as the crowd laughed and laughed. Leto tried to face the boy as quickly as he had dodged, but the sword was suddenly an impossible weight to bear.

He sensed the boy thrust at his back more than he saw it, and he dodged the blow faster than the boy expected. He leapt to his feet and swung his sword around, and saw the fear in the boy's eyes, in his white trembling lips.

_SURVIVE, _Oter's voice screamed at him. Leto obeyed, charging again before the boy could recover from his roll. But instead of swinging his sword again, which the boy expected, he swung it around and slammed the pommel of the sword into the boy's chest with an explosive 'HA!'

Stunned, the boy fell backward, sprawling pathetically in the bloody dirt, soiled from early battles. The blow had dazed him so badly that he couldn't breathe at first, his feeble gasp for air coming many seconds later.

"KILL!" the crowd bellowed gleefully. _"KILL!" _

But Leto looked at the boy, at the tears pooling at his eyes, making tracks down his dirty face. Pity stayed his hand, made him hesitate. _Survive! _Oter's voice reminded him, but how could he? This thing at his feet was no threat, and it wasn't in the interest of survival to kill him.

In the next instant, he was flat on his back. The pathetic boy had taken advantage of his pity and kicked his legs into Leto's, dropping him. He saw the boy leap to his feet and grab his daggers from the dirt as if in a haze. The pathetic expression on the boy's face became one of smug triumph; he had planned this. He had preyed on Leto's pity.

Something broke in him.

The edges of the world rimmed with red, with rage. Every moment of suppressed temper, every moment of anger and indignation he had felt exploded through him in that instant, all violence and hatred. He heard feral howling in his head, drowning out the din of the crowd. _**SURVIVE, **_Oter screamed at him, but not with words.

He flew to his feet before the boy had even brought his daggers to bear, snarling with fury. He was no longer Leto, the man. He was Mad Wolf, the creature Oter had found sparring in the mud, driven half insane by the force of his own rage.

He screamed and the crowd screamed with him. He was charging forward in the haze of his battle-rage, moving that impossibly huge greatsword with more speed than Leto the man could ever manage. He swung it in a severe arc, battling the puny daggers right out of the boy's hands.

In the next swing, his blade rent through the boy's flesh.

At first, there was no sound as he fell backward, his hands pressed at the gaping tear in his abdomen. But then he made a wet noise as he fell, a kind of choking sob; blood flecked his chin.

_"FINISH IT!" _the crowd screamed, and this time Leto obeyed. With a howl of rage, he plunged the greatsword into the boy's chest; he felt it crumple and collapse under the weight of his blow like a flimsy basket crushed underfoot.

In that next instant, he was Leto again. The crowd was impossibly loud, as if they had stopped their screaming and resumed with more force than he could ever have imagined. He pulled his sword upward, and it was almost a shock to see the wasted boy beneath it, a gaping hole in his chest, his mouth hanging open at a strange angle.

Leto felt his hands shake violently, and his stomach roiled. He tried to process what had just happened, but his mind curled away onto itself, desperately trying to avoid the horror he had wrought.

That boy is dead, Leto knew. _I killed him. _

There was no victory in that realization, no relief. He had survived just as Oter told him, but he hadn't. Not in the way he wanted to.

He wasn't fully aware of striding from the field, strapping his sword to his back. After what seemed to be an eternity in the scourging sun, the darkness of the antechamber was complete and impenetrable.

Oter was beside him in the next instant. There were no words exchanged between them, but Oter nodded.

He fell to his knees, his stomach boiling over with the force of his horrified disgust, and he vomited at Oter's feet.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Huge thanks to Scarletstar20, Eveqe, Kainen-no-Kitsune, Nocterayne, mille libri, Rinku-Chan 333, roxfox1962, and Shacary for your awesome reviews and to everyone else who faved and followed. Your support means the world.**

**Sorry for such a huge gap in updates! That last chapter really took it out of me, and I struggled trying to figure out where to go from that point. I don't foresee such a huge gap again, since I have a very good idea of where I want to go with this.**

**Anyways, I love hearing what you all think, so please leave me a review with your thoughts! Thanks for reading all. **

Leto wasn't fully aware of being led back to his cell. Oter was beside him, vaguely moving in and out of his line of perception as a ghost would. Perhaps Leto had become a ghost himself; only partly occupying this world. The thought was somewhat comforting.

They herded Leto and Oter into the cell and left them there for the remainder of the day; when the sun set, they were both brought a bowl of thick gruel. Oter ate voraciously, chattering about the smallest things, but Leto could not touch his food. He saw his wasted victim in every shadow, every flicker of the torchlight and his stomach turned.

At first, he felt nothing and that was a relief. He clung to the odd feeling of numbness that settled in his heart, clouded his thoughts like a dying man clings to life. He clung to it fervently, as if ardor could keep his thoughts clean and empty. But as the hours passed, stirrings of memory assaulted him, accompanied by the twist of disgust deep in his gut.

It wasn't real, it couldn't be. He found himself hoping, _praying_ that this was a dream and he would wake soon, stiff and sore on the floor of his hut but mercifully there and not here. A very real part of him chastised himself for his foolishness, his blindness. What had he expected, honestly? A real chance at honor for slave?

He saw the boy he'd killed then, broken and empty, his blood soaking the sand. Where was the honor in his death, or Leto's victory? There wasn't any, none at all. Two slaves had done battle and one had lived. It would have held the same significance if they were animals, snarling and snapping, ripping and tearing until one was dead.

A detached part of him recognized that as an apt description. They were now animals. They were caged and fed then ushered into the ring to fight and kill for their masters' pleasure. Animals didn't feel, Leto realized. They felt no regret or remorse, no guilt and shame. They were tools and distraction.

"You going to eat your dinner?" Oter asked mildly, nudging Leto's bowl.

Leto broke from his thoughts. He had almost forgotten Oter was there, so wrapped up in his horrified memory and speculation was he. "I suppose," he said dully. He wasn't hungry, not in the least, but he knew animals needed nourishment if they were to fight and win.

"You alright?" Oter asked, taking in the odd expression on Leto's face.

"I'm fine," Leto said, taking a disinterested bite. It was true, in some small part. He was alive. Perhaps if he was lucky and clever, he'd stay that way.

"You fought like a fool today," Oter said casually as he swiped his bowl clean with a gnarled finger.

Leto snapped his gaze to Oter's, to his insouciant glare. The old man was baiting him. "I know."

"You let that sickly creature take you for a fool. He almost got you; not because he was the better fighter, but because he wanted to live more."

This had been true; Leto remembered the overwhelming pity he had felt for the boy crumpled in the dust, the sun almost seeming to devour him. "I remember."

"You pitied him," Oter accused.

"Yes, I did," Leto snapped. "I'm sorry, Oter. My first reaction was one a human would have. I will remember to react like an animal from now on."

"You're being a smartass, but you're right. That's exactly what you're going to have to do now."

"I know," Leto retorted, and he turned away from Oter's sharp face, temper blurring the edges of his vision. He was dangerously close to losing control altogether, one step away from hurling pointed barbs at the old man, the only real siphon he had now.

"Say what you mean to, boy," Oter challenged.

That was all the permission Leto needed; he rounded on Oter in anger, his temper itching in his skull. "You think you know everything, old man. All I've heard from you is commands, orders! I'm not an idiot! I know what I have to do!"

"What's that, now?"

Leto's hands clenched into violent fists. "I have to survive. Isn't that what you said? I have to want to live more than the others, and I have to be willing to fight to make it so. To kill."

"And are you?" Oter's eyes were inscrutable in the darkness.

Leto didn't answer, partly because he himself didn't yet know the answer to that question. He had killed to survive today, but it had not been a conscious decision. It had been nothing more than instinct; a reaction to the duplicitous boy he had fought. He had seen the boy's gloating smile as he used Leto's pity against him, and the world had become red with his fury.

It had been the betrayal. There was no reason to believe that the boy would choose to show honor over trickery, and yet Leto had believed the best of him anyway. He had chosen to show mercy and had it thrown back in his face, turned from a weakling into a cunning danger. It had been a clever thing for the boy to do, for he had no doubt understood he would not win in a straight fight. But the trickery incensed Leto. It was dishonest. It was low.

"You saw what the boy did," Leto said slowly. "He lied. He made a show of weakness, and turned my pity against me." He paused, turning the disgusting thought over in his mind. "Are you saying I will have to do the same?"

Oter shook his head. "You won't need to. You're a natural swordsman, and I've trained you well. But you must learn to expect tricks and lies in those you face."

Leto felt sick. "So all that talk of honor . . ."

"You knew it was a lie. The first thing you asked me is if this contest was just one of their tricks. Why did you expect better of the men you face?"

The answer burst from him before he could consciously check his thoughts. "Because I expect better of myself. I don't lie and cheat because I wouldn't want to be lied and cheated to."

"But you will anyway. It doesn't matter how high a standard you hold yourself to; the majority will act as they will. You can't do anything about them."

"That isn't fair. If I make the effort to be honest, why can't they?"

"Why indeed?" Oter smiled then; a sharp, sarcastic smile, a grin with edges. "Because we're all on our own. Life is a struggle, and the opportunistic will take advantage of the honorable to get ahead. You make yourself easy prey by holding yourself to a high standard. You show the world you'll treat them with respect even as they slip a dagger between your ribs."

Leto shook his head, sick at heart. "Why is it like this?"

Oter's smile became sad. "Ah, Leto," he said; a sigh of defeat. "The world is a sharp and deadly place for idealists."

Leto turned away from Oter, from his angled faced, from his expression of unbearable understanding. He curled into his bed of straw and buried his head in his arms in a futile attempt to block out the world. He mourned for many things in the impenetrable darkness, the moans of the honored chosen echoing around him. He mourned for the loss of what he'd always known to be true, feeling it slip away from him as the minutes passed, elusive. He mourned the loss of the world he thought he'd lived, the world he now knew was nothing more than childish fancy, optimistic nonsense. He mourned for the boy who had understood what it would take to stay alive and failed anyway.

* * *

><p>The next day they were not woken with the rest of the elves in their block. Leto stirred as the shouts and cursing grew in pitch until it reverberated violently in his own skull, beating off the walls. Oter was already awake, his face pressed against the bars, watching the goings-on.<p>

"I don't think you're going to fight today," he said without preamble as Leto pushed himself up, watching a small group of guards pass their cell.

"What? Why?" Leto asked, relief and panic mingling at Oter's words.

"I don't know, exactly," Oter said, but he grinned. "I can guess, though."

"And your guess would be . . .?"

Oter turned away from the bars. "Your show impressed them yesterday. They don't want you to fight in any more preliminaries. They want to keep you around for the main fights."

"How was that fight impressive in any way?" Leto asked, feeling vaguely as if Oter were mocking him. "I was fooled."

"Your opponent fooled you and failed anyway. And after he did, you made a satisfyingly violent show of killing him. The crowd loved you," Oter said neutrally.

Guilt twisted Leto's stomach. That was indeed true, and the carelessness in which Oter said it was painful.

He should have known such a display would turn the violent, bloodthirsty crowd to his favor. But there was no relief or joy at the prospect; instead, he felt ill, sick at himself. He had grown to resent the Tevinter humans, their sick appetites, their disgusting desires. He'd lived his life attempting to avoid their attention as much as possible, and it was disconcerting to discover now that they favored him and his inexplicable display of rage.

"Will they leave us here all day, then?" Leto wondered aloud, eager to think of anything else.

"No, I don't think so," Oter mused. "I think they might let us out to train."

That sounded highly unlikely to Leto. "Why?"

"Like I said. You're a favorite now. I imagine you caught the eye of Danarius." Oter grinned. "He might even want to meet you."

"I doubt it."

"We'll see," Oter said with an infuriatingly assured tone, as if he already knew he was right.

And in the end, he was. They waited for hardly more than an hour before one of the guards came to their cell, keys in hand. The guard reeked of alcohol and he fumbled ineptly for the correct key, cursing under his breath. Leto felt vaguely uneasy; the block was nearly empty and most of the guard had gone with the rest of the fighters. Nothing would be able to stop this guard from getting a little rough with two unarmed slaves.

"It's the brass one," Oter put in helpfully.

Leto steeled himself for the inevitable barrage of racial slurs and perhaps even a beating, but none came. The guard sifted through the rest of the keys until he came upon the brass one and opened the door with an impossibly loud _clink, _nodding at Oter in thanks.

"You're allowed the morning in the training yard," the guard explained. "Come with me."

"Thank you," Oter said, and he grinned at Leto as if to say '_I told you so'._

They followed the guard through the winding halls of the complex, and as they went Leto found himself wondering at the guard's strange reaction to Oter. In fact, he realized that the guard's reaction was hardly unique; most humans treated Oter with a strange acceptance. The old man was a slave just as Leto was, but instead of disdain and disgust, the humans of Tevinter all seemed to know him specifically and, even more surprising, seemed to respect him. At the very least, there was acceptance of the old elf and his ways, for Oter rarely made a sincere show of deference to his masters.

The training yard was not empty as Leto had expected; there were a handful of elves already there, training furiously under the watchful gaze of the guards. Each elf looked more grizzled and ready than the last, including the two elves from Kirkwall; Leto bristled as he remembered their slur from the day before. Leto even recognized Telandrius in the shadows, his strange dark eyes piercing and hawkish as he watched the elves. Those dark eyes met his gaze, and Telandrius's severe eyebrows quirked in recognition.

"Go get a greatsword," Oter said to Leto. "Translate the drills from one to two-handed weapons if you can."

"You're not going to help?" Leto asked, abruptly irritated at how petulant he sounded to his own ears.

Oter smirked. "I will in my own time, boy. Do as I say."

Leto's lips mashed into a hard line as he marched off to the weapon stand. He clenched his teeth against his sudden temper, which never seemed to be far from the surface these days. He couldn't shake the feeling that Oter was making things difficult merely for his own amusement, and the thought rankled. He was supposed to help Leto in this awful place, and so far he'd done little more than taunt and lecture.

He chose the lightest greatsword on the rack. It was a shoddy weapon, but of the greatswords available it had the best balance. The others were little more than prop weapons, considering the construction. He turned the blade over in his hands, adjusting to its weight, accustoming himself to the snap of his muscles in response.

As Leto performed the modified drills, he allowed himself to sink into the comforting meditation of practice. It was a routine he'd perfected under Oter's tutelage, and as he grew in skill, he was able to take an even more complete refuge in practice. The vague worries and concerns he'd felt over the last few days disappeared as he swung and thrust in careful time. The sickening churn of guilt slowly vanished. He was aware only of his body; the burn of his muscles, the steady beat of his heart, the sweat that beaded on his brow and chased down his back.

Oter was right; this sword would have to be used as both weapon and shield in a life and death situation. It had seemed somewhat impossible at first, but as he practiced, he realized he could manage it through careful application and modification of parries. With a regular longsword, it fell on his left arm and shield to protect, but with a greatsword, it was possible with both arms. He practiced bringing the giant sword around in quick snaps, anticipating imaginary blows.

Offense with a greatsword was actually surprisingly instinctive to Leto. It required force and velocity, sufficient application of both speed and power. He was fast enough naturally, and more than ten years as Oter's student and a dock worker had cultivated strength. Though he had complained the day before, he was actually well suited to the greatsword.

Without warning, another blade met his. Heart thudding painfully in the vicinity of his throat, Leto snapped his gaze to the hidden assailant, only to narrow his eyes in irritation. It was Oter, of course, teasing smirk nearly a permanent fixture on the worn crags of his face.

"Why do you allow me to sneak up on you?" Oter asked, battling Leto's sword aside with surprising strength, given his age.

There was no answer Leto could give that would turn the situation to his favor, so he didn't respond, instead bringing his sword up to bear and pushing Oter back with a grunt. Oter danced back on agile feet, and they squared off, circling one another.

Leto knew there was lesson in this display somewhere. It was the true rebuke for his foolishness in battle the day before, and Oter was intent on making his point. How many times had they done something similar in the years of training? Leto would make a stupid mistake, and instead of a true lecture, Oter would teach him through combat. The rational part of Leto understood this as a more effective method of instruction, but he still allowed himself to be irritated.

Oter pressed the attack ferociously, swinging and jabbing in quick movements. His shield did not move through the offense, and the only part of Oter he could see were the old man's eyes, deadly and intent on Leto, watching for failure and flaw. Leto did not back down, and for each of Oter's attacks he brought his greatsword up to parry.

His instincts were good, he realized. Or perhaps he knew Oter too well. For every one of Oter's attacks, he was able to parry with increasing force, gaining confidence as he went. Oter was respected as one of the most skilled bodyguards a magister ever had, past or present, and if Leto could beat him back now, what did that say for his own skill?

This delusion died quickly, and Leto realized Oter was only playing with him. As they struck and defended, Oter's attacks grew quicker, more calculated. He tapped Leto's calf with the flat side of his blade, quirking his brows as Leto brought his greatsword to parry too slow. Leto heard a growl of anger in the ring and he realized belatedly it came from his own lips. His temper, always too close to the surface these days, churned at the insult.

He and Oter locked blades, Leto growing more irritated as Oter toyed with him. His sarcastic grin pulled even wider, and without a second of warning, Oter brought his shield and around the locked blades, knocking Leto in the forehead. It wasn't a hard blow, but it was so unexpected he fell backward into the dust, stunned.

Oter laughed aloud at the ridiculous picture, and Leto finally lost control of his poorly restrained temper. He leapt to his feet, snarling at the insult. He no longer cared to discover what lesson Oter had in store for him; he only wanted to humiliate the irritating old man in turn. Springing from the dust, he brought his sword around in a crushing blow; it connected with Oter's shield and splintered the shoddy thing into many pieces as if it had been held together by glue.

Oter cried out, clutching his arm and falling to the ground. Leto's anger evaporated in that instant, replaced by a sick dread. Maker, what if he had killed Oter? How would he be able to forgive himself for hurting the closest thing to a father he'd ever known? What kind of monster was he? He dropped his greatsword and rushed to Oter's side, kneeling, checking to see how much damage he'd done-

-and in the next instant he was flat on his back, pinned by the tip of Oter's sword. The old man pressed it into Leto's neck hard enough to make his point, that all too familiar smirk playing at his lips.

"And, you're dead," he said.

Leto sighed. There it was; the lesson he should have continued to anticipate. "I'm dead," he allowed, closing his eyes in irritation and shame.

Satisfied with his display, Oter released Leto, who sat up in the dirt and rubbed at the pinpoint wound on his neck ruefully. "Do you understand now?"

And, to his surprise, Leto did. Oter's lesson had put the world in realistic perspective. "If I can't trust you to be up front in combat, I can't trust anyone," Leto offered.

"Exactly," Oter said, and despite his humiliation, Leto felt pleased at Oter's expression of pride. "You care about me, yes?"

"As much as my own family," Leto said immediately.

"If you care about me, don't let any fool pull one over you in the ring again. Think about what it'll do to this old heart," Oter said, and he held a gnarled hand to his chest for effect.

Leto shook his head, though a smile tugged at his lips. He picked himself up out of the dirt and brushed the dust off his knees, picking up his discarded sword and kicking the remains of the shield out of the ring.

They trained together for the rest of the morning, Oter offering instruction and suggestion at every turn. Leto knew better than to turn aside the old man's ideas, and though he'd only truly held a greatsword in his hands for a few cumulative hours, he could sense the improvement. He was faster, stronger. He was better able to parry Oter's attacks as they came, and by the end he was able to even press his own offensive.

Oter gestured to stop, bent over as he struggled to catch his breath. "Damn, boy," he said, panting with difficulty. "You wear an old man out."

"I'm sorry," Leto said automatically.

"Don't be," Oter said, waving Leto's apology off. "Someday, you'll be even more skilled than I was."

Leto brushed the praise aside, though it was rare coming from Oter's mouth. "That's not true."

"I'll be damned if it isn't." Oter laughed suddenly. "I'll be damned anyway, come to that."

Leto let this slide; Oter was prone to saying strange things like this at odd times. But for the first time in many days, he felt somewhat relieved. Any thought of killing in the ring still brought about a crushing wave of guilt, but Leto felt better able to put it in perspective. And more importantly, he felt better equipped to survive, to succeed. To win and see his family freed. That was the point of it all, in the end.

"Do you think they'd let me free you also, Oter?" he asked suddenly.

Oter paused, craning to look up at Leto. "I don't think so, boy." He frowned. "And even if they would, I wouldn't let you."

This was a surprise. Oter had never made his thoughts on freedom or slavery known, but Leto had assumed he'd longed for freedom, for what slave didn't want to be free? What slave didn't consider it in truly desperate and horrible times? "Why?" he asked before he could check his tongue.

Oter's frown changed, deepened; his eyes became dark. "I'll tell you someday, yeah? Come on, help an old man up."

Leto barely had time to consider Oter's reticence before the training yard erupted in shouts and screams. Oter's eyes widened a split second before he planted his hands into Leto's chest and shoved him back with more force than Leto would have thought possible; even still, Leto felt something slice across his cheek. Telandrius burst from the shadows, his hands outstretched, his mouth moving soundlessly, and the shouts abruptly stopped.

As Leto turned, his hand to his freely bleeding cheek, he saw both of the Kirkwall elves trapped in bands of arcane energy, their mouths open in silent protest. And it suddenly occurred to him; one of them had tried to kill him.

Oter yanked Leto up by his arm, his expression more dangerous than Leto had ever seen in his life. The planes and crags of his face, so normally turned into sarcastic grins and laughter, were clouded with fury and murderous intent. Leto subconsciously felt himself pulling away, shocked at the sudden change that had come over the old man.

But Oter didn't seem to notice Leto. He stormed over to Telandrius without a pause, and Leto scurried after him, fearful of the mage's reaction. Such a direct confrontation of a citizen of the Imperium usually ended in beatings, sometimes even execution. Though Leto knew Telandrius was a human slave, a collared mage in the service of Danarius, he was still owed more respect than an elf.

Somehow Telandrius didn't seem to notice Oter's impudence. He turned to the old man with a surprising amount of deference.

"Which one?" Oter demanded. "Which one tried to kill him?"

"I didn't see," Telandrius replied. "That's why I'm holding both."

Oter turned away, disgusted. "They'll each accuse the other, ensuring that they both live."

Telandrius wasn't fazed by Oter's assessment of the would-be murderers. "If that is how they aim to play the situation, they'll both be killed."

This gave Oter pause. "Killed?"

"Of course. This competition is not a joke. There is a mage in every corner of this complex, in addition to a full complement of guards watching for this kind of nonsense."

"Why bother? Wouldn't you come to a victor faster if you left the competitors to their own devices?"

Leto waited on bated breath for the moment the mage tired of Oter's questions, but the moment didn't come. Telandrius shrugged. "Danarius has no interest in a back-stabbing cheat as his lyrium warrior. He wants the _lyrium bellator_ to be truly the most skilled, not the most devious."

Oter didn't reply, though Leto recognized his thoughtful, speculative expression. "I see." He nodded toward the Kirkwall elves. "What are you waiting for?"

"Danarius, of course. He'll decide specifically what to do with them."

Oter nodded. "I assume you'd like us to remain?"

"I'm sure it would please Danarius if you did. He'll want to speak to the slave who saved his favorite in person."

Oter nodded again and took Leto by the shoulder, leading him away to a relatively empty corner, where they could speak and not be overheard by the milling guards and elves. The murderously serious expression had still not left Oter's face, and Leto felt his unease deepen.

"Are you angry with me?" Leto finally asked.

Oter's gaze snapped to Leto. "Why would I be angry at you?"

"I didn't see them try to kill me."

At this, Oter nearly smiled. "Good as you are, I don't expect you'll ever have eyes in the back of your head."

Leto chanced a glance back to the two captive elves, their combined stares boring into him with murderous rage. "I knew they didn't like me, but I never thought they'd risk a fight in front of all the guards."

"It's not about not liking you," Oter said impatiently. "You're skilled. They wanted you out of their way without having to face you in the field."

Danarius did not take long to arrive, which was both something of a relief and a disappointment. The magister unnerved Leto somehow; whether it was his strange eyes or his overly polite tone of voice, his expression constantly set in amusement. It struck Leto as disingenuous.

It came as a surprise to remember that should Leto succeed and become the _lyrium bellator, _he would become Danarius's property. In fact, technically he already was. Leto's unease deepened.

"What happened here?" Danarius said softly, looking from the wound on Leto's cheek to the two captive elves.

Telandrius let the elves loose from their binds, and they fell into the dirt, gasping. "One of these elves attempted to kill that one over there," he said, nodding toward Leto. "When his back was turned, no less. Oter pushed him out of the way."

Danarius nodded in pleasure. "Your reputation is well earned, Oter," he said pleasantly. "Now, what to do with you?" he asked, turning back to the Kirkwall elves.

The elves said nothing, and Leto saw the muscles in their jaws tighten in tandem. He suddenly knew Oter was wrong about them; they would not be moved to betray one another.

"Oh, that won't do at all," Danarius said sadly. "If the guilty one does not confess, you both will be killed. Which would be a pitiful waste."

Both elves looked as if they had not expected Danarius's ultimatum. He'd heard there was no slavery in Kirkwall, so he wondered what these two were doing here, so far in the enslaved north. He wondered if the legend had brought them, the chance to become powerful beyond any elf in the world. And though one of them had nearly killed him, he felt pity for the two elves, who knew nothing of the ways of Tevinter.

One of them turned to the other and came to a decision, his expression tight and determined. "It was me. I tried to kill the _lupo_," he spat.

"Len, no!" the other shouted. "It was me! I did it!"

"He's lying," Len said. "Don't punish him for what I did."

"Do you presume to tell a magister what to do, elf?" Telandrius hissed, his hand cocking back.

But Danarius stopped him with a glance. "That will not be necessary. Thank you for your honesty," he said to Len. "It would be a pity to have had to kill two contenders needlessly."

Len said nothing, not even as two guard lifted him to his feet and dragged him from the room, presumably to be killed. The other elf- Ren, as Leto remembered- said nothing himself, though his eyes burned with murderous rage.

"Now," said Danarius, "I can expect better behavior from you, yes?" He lifted Ren's chin so as to look him full in the face.

"Yes," Ren said, and his voice was devoid of the fury Leto saw in his eyes.

"I'm so glad," Danarius said, releasing the livid elf and stepping away. "You've done well, Telandrius."

"Thank you, my lord."

Danarius gestured to another two guards. "Take him to his cell. Leave him until his next fight. He's to take his meals there for the duration of this competition."

The guards leapt to their feet, eager to obey their lord. They dragged Ren out in the opposite direction, as the elf seemed to have lost the will to move under his own power. And though both elves had made their distaste for Leto clear, he still felt pity for them, for their foolishness and ambition. It occurred to him that he'd most likely face Ren in the field, and his gut twisted in fear.

He'd watched the guards remove Ren so intently that it was a painful shock to see Danarius only a few feet from him, peering at him with obscene interest. "What a nasty scratch," he said kindly.

Leto nearly jumped in surprise. Danarius was well known as the most powerful magister in Minrathous, and he was ashamed to admit his apprehension and terror at being so close to the man. "Yes, master," he said quickly, averting his eyes as he had been trained to do.

Danarius laughed. "None of that. Allow me to heal you," he offered, as if he was giving Leto the opportunity to turn him down.

"If it pleases you, master," he said promptly. He was wise to these games, to the illusion of choice. There was no choice for him, a lowly slave. It never mattered what he wanted. He turned the wounded side of his face toward Danarius, not daring to meet the magister's gaze.

Warmth brushed his face and he felt the spell knitting his torn flesh, erasing the pain as it flooded through him. It was surprisingly pleasant; he had subconsciously braced himself for punishment, for in his experience a master often said one thing before doing another.

Surprised, he touched his face where the wound was, shocked to discover that there was no wound, not even a scar. "Good as new," Danarius said, beaming pleasantly.

"Thank you, master," Leto said quickly, watching his feet.

"It was my pleasure," Danarius said. "As it is my pleasure to watch you fight. You are exceptionally talented."

"Thank you, master."

Danarius said no more, though he did not leave immediately. His gaze pierced into Leto, searching the planes of his face intently, and Leto felt himself holding his breath. Despite no appearances to the contrary, this man frightened him more than anything he'd known in his life; there was something malignant about his smiling face. There was something even more terrifying in an open hand than a closed fist.

Danarius smiled brightly before turning to leave the training yard, presumably for the last round of preliminary fights. Leto and Oter did not speak until they had been escorted back to their cell, although Oter caught Leto's gaze at one point during the trek, raising his brows. The meaning was clear as clear as if he had spoken aloud; _do you believe me now?_


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: Special thanks to The. L O S T .Paperclip, Bluerosebud423, mille libri, roxfox1962, Legal Assassin and Kainen-no-Kitsune for the awesome reviews, and to everyone else who faved and followed. **

**I don't really have a great reason for my super long absence except for real life, but I'm back now and I hope to finish this piece soon. **

**I love hearing from you all, so if you have any thoughts please leave me a review and let me hear them! Thanks for reading everyone, and enjoy.**

The dormitory was nearly silent that night. The usual whispering and plaintive moans had all but abated, and things were quiet if not peaceful. Though more than half of the elven slaves had met their end in the ring, Leto suspected there was too much to process through words and grief; it all boiled away beneath the skin, too large and terrible to articulate.

Even Oter was unusually quiet, chewing a long stale piece of bread as he stared up through the barred window toward the stars. Leto had never seen the old man in such a pensive mood, and after the moon reached its apex in the sky he could take it no longer.

"What's wrong?" he whispered toward Oter.

Oter started, as if he'd forgotten Leto was even there. "Just thinking."

"About?"

Oter turned to Leto and smiled in the darkness, though it was a hard thing, not quite reaching his eyes. "I'm making my peace."

"What?" Leto gaped, his throat going dry. "Are you dying as well?"

"Not in the way you're thinking. I'm old, Leto."

"Being old doesn't mean you're going to die soon," Leto argued. "Belon lived to be nearly one-hundred thirty, remember? You're not that old."

"That is true," Oter said without quite agreeing. "It feels like it'll be time for me soon."

"How do you know?"

"I don't really. Just a feeling. It's hard to explain right."

"I think you're being paranoid," Leto said, crossing his arms.

Oter grinned. "You don't live to be as old as me without being a little paranoid."

Leto disregarded this. Something about the old man's affect disturbed him in a vague way; as if he were a criminal mulling over his crimes the evening before execution, in anticipation of the blade. "What have you to make peace for?" Leto wondered after a moment's silence.

Oter didn't respond immediately. He turned back toward the window, the moonlight reflecting in his inscrutable eyes, and Leto was suddenly struck by his remoteness; he'd lived a whole, distant life before Leto had even been born. It was as if the closest thing to a father he'd known had become a stranger; the lines of his face unfamiliar and terrible. "Everything," Oter said.

They spoke no more after that.

* * *

><p>Leto woke well before the guards, watching the other slaves stir as the sun slowly broke over the horizon and poured through the high barred windows, creating stark shadows. This time, when the guards came for the slaves, there was no shouting or howling, no cries of indignation echoing off the high ceilings like discordant bells. There was relative silence and acceptance. There was grit.<p>

Oter did not say anything when the guards came to escort him to the mess, only clapping Leto on the shoulder and smiling tightly before turning away.

Though Leto knew there was at least one fight that awaited him in the ring today, he couldn't completely divorce his thoughts from Oter's strange unhappiness. He supposed Oter was fond of odd asides every now and then; he was biting and pragmatic, a moral relativist. He'd never known the old man to fear death or suffer under the weight of some phantom guilt, and the unspoken reason for it was troubling. What had Oter done that tormented him so?

Leto was led through the morning preparations cursorily; he was bathed and armored with the other slaves as if this was rote, and somehow after the span of two days, it had become so. It was almost a struggle to remember the docks, the men he worked with day in and day out, the monotonous indignities of life as Quendius's slave.

He was lifted out of his thoughts by whispers of the slaves around him, their hard, speculative stares. To his surprise, they were not cowed to be caught; if anything, their expressions darkened even further as they studied him. It occurred to him immediately that they must have heard what had happened the day before; the attempt on his life, the execution of the perpetrator. And yet, from the look of the other slaves, they counted him as the enemy.

He realized that they hated him.

Their hatred surprised him. Though he was not unused to the hatred of humans, all his life he'd considered elves to be united. Perhaps it was a belief conditioned by his life on Quendius' compound. The slaves maintained a passive rebellion in the way they banded together for support; when one was weakened, the others stepped forward to take the weight. It was how his mother was able to avoid her duties long enough to see him cured of cholera all those years ago. It was how they had been able to care for his mother when she'd fallen ill.

It was now he realized this was not common among the other slave communities. These elves didn't see him as an ally against the mages and humans who made them suffer. They saw him as an enemy, and he realized he truly was. They all were angling for the same thing; victory in the ring. There were no allies in this place. There was death and there was survival. It was just as Oter had said.

For the first time in his life, Leto didn't resist this realization. He didn't stubbornly insist the world shape to fit his ideals. He accepted it; a bitter pill to swallow.

Oter was waiting for him in the mess, steely eyes marking the proceedings, the guards, the remaining slaves. He brightened when he saw Leto, though, and beckoned him over to where he sat. Despite everything, Leto was relieved to see Oter's strange mood had finally passed.

"Odd things this morning," Oter said by way of greeting.

"What have you heard?"

"Whispers," Oter said, lips twisting. "Rumors. They're planning something big for the fights today."

Leto shoveled a spoonful of mush into his mouth. "Like what?"

"I don't know for sure," Oter said, breaking a hunk of bread between his gnarled hands and handing one half to Leto. "I heard something about beasts, grouped fights. The crowd is bored with mere slaughter; now they want spectacle."

Leto shook his head. "Men killing one another for their amusement isn't spectacle enough?"

Oter's gaze snapped to Leto's, and for a moment Leto thought the old man was alarmed by what he'd said. The expression passed before he could mark it properly. "I guess not."

Leto wiped the bowl clean with the hunk of bread. "The others know about what happened yesterday. To the Kirkwaller."

"Yeah, I heard." Oter's lips pulled up into a half-grin. "You're not particularly liked around here, boy."

He'd swallowed this bitter pill of survival, but he didn't like it. He shrugged to keep from betraying his unhappiness.

"If it wasn't those Kirkwallers, it would have been something else, Leto," Oter said, seriously now. "You're skilled. They were all going to see it eventually."

"I guess."

They ate in silence, swallowed by the increasing din of the coliseum crowd from beyond the high windows. Leto felt his hands begin to tremble, clenched fists shaking below the table, but he kept himself still. He thought of the greatsword they'd push into his hands before sending him out into the ring. He didn't think of his opponents. He didn't allow himself to speculate on their characters or motivations, on whether they would deserve to die or not.

"How do you think Lea and Varania are today?" he asked desperately. They were the reason he was doing this. If he kept them close, all would be all right in the end.

Oter seemed to understand. "I'm sure they're doing better today. They probably heard about your success in the ring, you know."

It wasn't really success, though, was it? It wasn't a victory to kill another wounded beast backed into a wall. "Yeah," Leto echoed.

It would be worth it, he coached himself. His mother not only cured but freed, along with his sister. No longer forced to submit to cruel men for survival. He saw their faces through a veil, their red hair, sad eyes, tired hands. He imagined them healthy and laughing, secure in freedom, and the pit in his stomach lessened slightly.

"Leto and retainer," one of the guards said. "Come with me."

They stood and followed the guard out of the mess, through the winding lower passages beneath the coliseum, and this time Leto kept his head. He knew what to expect now. He'd be given a sword and expected to kill. The action was not unfamiliar now. He knew how the man would sound as he breathed his last, his heart stilling, mouth gaping.

He planned one small defiance against the bloodthirsty humans he could hear cheering above him, through many feet of dirt. He'd kill as commanded, he'd survive -yes. But he wouldn't be a monster. At the end, he would kill as quickly and cleanly as he could manage.

"You're first today," Oter said. "I knew it."

"What?"

"You're definitely the favorite," Oter explained as if it were obvious. "They're going to test you harder now. You'll probably fight more than once a day from here on out."

Leto swallowed, nodded.

"Remember what we went over yesterday," Oter said as the guard shoved a shoddy greatsword into Leto's hands and pushed him up the path. The gate to the coliseum shone like a beacon in the darkness, the sunlight promising to be harsh.

Leto nodded again. His throat was tight and though he desperately tried not to think, images of who his opponent would be slipped into his mind; his reasons, his character. From beyond the gate, the crowd howled for blood.

"Go," the guard said as the gate slowly cranked open, the sound of rusty hinges scraping against his ears.

Oter said nothing, only nodded. Leto caught a flash of the old man's expression before he was shunted toward the scouring brightness of the coliseum; hard eyes, his lips turning downward. It was worry, Leto realized belatedly. He'd never seen the old man worried about anything.

But he was ready this time. The brightness and heat of the sun did not unbalance him as it had before, and the screaming of the crowd was a pale distraction, nothing more. They screamed as one, though Leto did not hear them. He saw and heard the ring, only the ring. The sand under his feet, the cry of the gulls as they circled overhead, hoping for a scrap of food. Leto wondered briefly what it would be like to have wings.

At the top and center of the coliseum was a box for the host and his honored guests. Leto squinted up at it through the blinding sun and though he couldn't be sure, he though he saw Danarius sit among them, a hungry smile on his face as he watched Leto cross into the center of the ring.

Beside Danarius, Telandrius stepped forward and addressed the screaming crowd; his voice echoing through the stadium at an impossible volume, and Leto realized magic was the likely cause.

"_**On the third day of the games, we present to you the most promising of our candidates in a harrowing display of skill and savagery. I give you – THE MAD WOLF."**_

It was only after the cheering of the crowd increased to an impossible pitch that Leto surmised he was supposed to be this 'mad wolf.' He looked up into their collective faces as they chanted the title and felt revulsion curdle in his stomach. 'Mad wolf'? Did his own name no longer suffice? Bitterly, he realized his name was, and perhaps always had been inconsequential. He was whatever the humans wanted, and they wanted Mad Wolf.

"_**For the first display, The Mad Wolf will prove his skill and superiority against the most fearsome predator of the northern jungles. Who shall emerge victorious? The wolf . . . or the tiger?"**_

Cold sweat broke out on Leto's neck despite the impossible heat of the sun as he brought his sword to bear. He'd never seen a tiger in his life – why would he have? He backed toward the edge of the ring, his eyes roving from each gate, waiting for the beast to appear and charge. The din was impossible; he wondered vaguely if the crowd now cheered through magic as well.

From the furthest gate he heard the agonized howling of a beast in pain; its screams cutting through the noise of the crowd with ease. Leto shifted from foot to foot, breathing deeply, waiting. His mouth was dry and his palms had begun to sweat; the blade slipping between his hands. He watched the shadows with wide eyes, hoping to see any sign of the beast from within.

He was not prepared for the sight of the tiger. It came charging from the shadows like a creature possessed and snarled blindly in the sun, utterly unhinged. Leto caught sight of its bleeding flanks as it charged and he knew the guards must have tormented the poor thing for hours in order to drive it into a frenzy.

He knew better, he really did. He knew they were both animals in the ring, pitted against one another so one could win and one could die. But he still pitied the creature; the way one doomed wretch pities another that is one step closer to its fate.

The tiger bounded toward him, teeth bared, and he slipped into the stark place where there was little else aside from the blade in his hands, his heartbeat thudding in his ears. He dove out of the creature's path and rolled into a ready position. He held his blade in one hand and jabbed at the tiger; halting its thunderous advance. It hissed at him and batted at the blade with one powerful paw.

The first few strikes missed the blade but the third struck true; the blade skittered out of his grasping hands and bounced a few feet away into the sand. Sensing the advantage, the tiger charged, snarling-

- and Leto dove toward the ground, grabbing a handful of sand and hurling it into the creature's eyes without conscious thought, only instinct. The beast shrunk away, howling in pain, and the crowd howled with it.

He grabbed his sword and swung it around, heart clanging. The beast was blinded but not defeated; if anything it became more violent, more desperate, now lashing out at Leto with feral unrestraint. He batted the creature's strikes and lunges away but each strike grew more difficult to parry; the weight of the sword burned in his arms, his chest.

This stupid sword was no spear, light and easy, long enough to ward off a charging enemy with a few well-placed strikes. If he expected to survive this bout, he would have to end it quickly or be gutted by the tiger; an inglorious end to the Mad Wolf.

He dodged another powerful blow, lashing out in return this time. His sword bit at the creature's front flank and it howled in agony. Another strike, another defensive wound. He would bring the beast down with small strikes until it could defend against him no more.

He moved with focus and speed that wasn't his own. He didn't feel the claws of the beast rake through his flesh; he was only intent on the weak target of its chest, plain and bare in the blinding sun. He wasn't aware of his blood or his breathing; only the point of his sword, plunging into the heart of the tiger. He wasn't aware of the screaming of the crowd; only the rattling breath of the beast as it died on his sword.

It took considerably more effort to pull the sword from the beast than it had to kill it. Leto dimly guessed momentum had played a part; momentum and blind instinct. He'd disdained being slung with the title of Mad Wolf, and yet it was oddly appropriate; he was no better than a mad beast here, nor was it the place to try to be any better.

He looked down at the wasted creature, its blood pooling in the thick sand. It was a beautiful beast, powerful and fast with orange and black fur unlike anything Leto had seen before. Though a part of him mourned the beast, he knew what he'd done to be merciful in a certain light; the creature was much like he was- abused and misused in the name of entertainment – and if he met a similar end in the ring, he'd want who stood above him with their blade drawn to make it quick.

He felt at his shoulder, where the tiger's claws at raked through flesh. He was only now beginning to feel the pain of the wound. The screaming of the crowd resurfaced as if he'd broken over the surface of the sea; suddenly, everything was too loud and bright, stark against his senses.

"_**THE MAD WOLF IS VICTORIOUS!" **_ Leto heard Telandrius as if he'd shouted straight into his ears.

He expected to be led from the field, but when no one came for him the cold sweat broke on his brow once again. He was wounded, exhausted, his muscles burned under the weight of wielding his sword against such a powerful creature. They couldn't intend to make him fight again so soon, could they?

"_**The Mad Wolf is triumphant against the fiercest predator in the jungle, but how will he fare against a horde?" **_Telandrius asked the crowd, arms wide, and they screamed their answers, uninform and ugly. "_**Turn your eyes to the ring and we shall see who is the strongest; the wolf or the mob!"**_

Leto did not entertain thoughts of his death, though they crowded against his mind, eager to be heard and feared. He wiped his bloody hands on his armor and scrubbed his face, his raw eyes. He hoisted the sword between his hands and waited with a straight back, and the crowd loved him for his pride and courage. Imagine- a slave with such qualities.

First, he fought two. The guards sent them wheeling toward Leto with daggers only, loose leathers hanging off their bodies as if they'd been wrapped in shrouds rather than armor. They fell quickly to his blows. He was merciful, he made it quick.

Then three; skinny men clad in mail and bearing shoddy shields. They tried to flank him, but he smashed their shields and cut them down before they could blink; their eyes were wide and open in death.

Then five. He didn't look into their eyes as he fought them; only their bodies, their movements and strategies plain in every corded muscle, the weapons they bore that glinted in the harsh sun.

He lost count after that. He had retreated far into the realm of his focus; where there was no thought or guilt of feeling, just instinct, the pure will to survive. The larger the mob he fought, the more they seemed to be of one mind, their offensive unified yet eventually ineffective. Regardless of their cunning, they still fell.

Three slaves broke from the mob to charge him, expressions full of blind, frothing rage, the same will to survive. They did not have the skill Leto had trained into his bones, his muscles, each swing and parry more like instinct than conscious thought. He cut down two of them before they could defend but the third slipped past his guard, his blade slicing through the gap in his armor and rending the flesh of his side.

He battered the blades out of the slave's hands and ran the slave through with one smooth motion. The slave coughed, blood and spittle flecking Leto's cheek, before his breath rattled and died in his chest.

The pain bit at him but he gritted his teeth against it, ignoring the howl that built up in his throat, his chest. His body ached, the wound throbbing like his racing heart. The world shimmered before his eyes and he saw the massing slaves advance on him only by the way their blades shone in the sun, an army of steel teeth gnashing at him.

He would have liked to drop his sword into the dust and accept his fate. He was tired. A deluge of sweat raced down the trench of his spine. His arms shook from exhaustion. He saw the sun high in the sky and wondered how long he'd been made to fight. But he did not drop his sword. He saw Lea's and Varania's faces in his mind, wan and broken, weeping through all their days as slaves.

So he hefted his sword back up to bear and screamed with the force of his will. Nothing would come between him and victory now, between him and his family. The massing army of teeth halted and he felt their fear. He saw himself as they must see him; hunched over a wound, wild eyes, greatsword clenched between his hands. He saw himself hurtle towards them with inhuman speed.

He met their blades one by one; parry, thrust, kill. He no longer saw eyes or faces; he saw creatures. But even in his battle madness, he gave them what he promised; a quick death, painless as he could manage.

He came back to himself amidst a sea of bodies. No guards had entered during the fight to drag away the dead, and now they surrounded him like broken crates in a placid lake after storms. He blinked up into the bright sun, his sword dangling idle in his hands, and was scoured by that bright eye, weighed and judged as monstrous in victory.

Only then did he realize that the stadium was completely silent. No one cheered or howled for blood; no one made a single sound, not even Danarius. He realized as he scanned their faces that they feared him. A half-mad slave, drenched in the blood of those he'd killed, looking out at the world unafraid. They'd wanted a mad wolf but no longer knew what to make of him.

He realized they'd expected him to die. He bit back the mad laughter that bubbled in his throat, though his lips pulled over his teeth in a feral grin. If he hadn't smiled, he would have screamed.

Telandrius coughed. "_**The- the Mad Wolf is victorious!" **_he called, and the crowd slowly roused into cheering, though the sound of it had changed. It was not fervid, bloodthirsty; it was cautious. They regarded him the way civilized folk regard barbarians; half-expecting him to fly into a blood rage.

He did not acknowledge the crowd, not even then. With all the strength he could muster, he plunged the greatsword point first into the sand, where it stood well after he limped into the shadows of the gate, weaving from the force of his thrust like a banner in the wind.

* * *

><p>Time stretched and bent after that, though never breaking apart completely. He was briefly aware of stumbling as soon as he made it into the gate, Oter's arms holding him up, bearing him along. He heard Oter's voice in his ear but couldn't understand the words he spoke, only the feel of his breath on his cheek. He saw unnatural light in the darkness, binding his wounds, filling his body with light. He saw the path back to his cage, felt the bed of straw under his back.<p>

He lost the world after that.

When he opened his eyes again, the sun was diminished, a dim red lining the horizon, separating night from day. He was sore. He felt where he remembered wounds to be only to touch new scars, the skin grown over in puckered paths. He was stiff, tired. He felt as if he'd died.

"Oter?" he asked the darkness.

He felt a hand on his brow. "I'm here." It was indeed Oter, looking as if he'd aged a century.

"What's wrong?"

Oter shook his head. "Nothing, boy. How are you feeling?"

He struggled to sit up, flexing his arms and legs, rolling his neck. "Better."

"Good," Oter said. His relief was palpable. "Good."

They were silent for a long while, listening to the sounds of life from outside the dormitory. Gulls cried and people talked, and it all seemed very far away.

"I didn't think you would survive today, boy," Oter said in a rough voice.

"I didn't think I would either," Leto echoed.

"I thought the fights would be spaced, you know? Ordered. I thought you'd be alternated in and out. Not a straight fight for so long."

"How long?" Leto wondered.

"Nearly the whole morning."

Leto was silent. It had felt both much longer and much briefer than that.

"They're scared of me," he finally said. "Did you hear? When I'd won, they didn't cheer at first."

"I noticed. Boy, I'll be honest; I'm almost scared of you."

Out of everything today, this was the one thing that registered. If Oter no longer knew him, he really must have become as monstrous as he feared. Would he even recognize his reflection anymore? "Are you really?"

Oter tried to smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Almost, I said. You're still my Leto."

"All right."

Oter considered for a moment. "I think you'll end up winning this, boy."

"Why? I almost didn't make it today."

"But you did. And like you said, the public fears you now. If that doesn't guarantee your survival, nothing will."

Leto frowned. "I don't understand."

"Danarius doesn't just want a pet. The Lyrium Warrior won't just be a toy in his collection. He'll be a tool, a weapon. Danarius wants a creature that will strike terror into the hearts of his friends and enemies alike, and you've proven to him that you can do exactly that on only your second fight in the ring. I wouldn't be surprised if the rest of the competition seems only to exist to test you."

So he was well on his way to getting what he wanted. He saw Lea's and Varania's faces through the veil, features indistinct. He didn't imagine they would know him if they ever saw one another again. "That's good," he said distantly.

A selfish part of him wished he'd never volunteered. He was tired of killing, of death. He wanted to be home, his mother and sister sleeping beside him. He wanted the comfort of an average and miserable life with no blood on his hands. But he only had to think of their suffering to bite down on his selfishness, swallow it like bitter blood. He'd done this for them. He wouldn't turn back now or ever.

Oter watched his silence before grinning. He was a good actor; the grin seemed almost genuine. If he hadn't known Oter he would have missed the tightness of his eyes. "Remember Nat and Jin?"

Despite himself, Leto smiled. Nat and Jin were two of the elves he worked with who had a proclivity for endless banter, though everyone knew it wasn't hatred that caused the two elves to butt heads constantly.

"Sometimes I think I can hear them even now," he said. "They'd bicker about which box to put where, which shipment had what and came from where."

"Remember when Nat pushed Jin off the dock?"

Leto snorted. "Jin couldn't swim, so Nat jumped right in after, hauled him to shore. They argued the whole way back."

"Always thought they should fuck and get it over with."

Leto choked at the sound of the foul word on Oter's lips. "Who says they hadn't?"

Oter grinned. "Good for them."

"I miss them sometimes. All the boys at the docks, actually. It was clean work, you know? Mindless. Nothing heavy about it." Leto paused. "I always thought it was dull, but now I miss it."

"Would you go back?" Oter asked.

Leto shook his head. "No. I mean to see this through."

Oter didn't speak immediately, considering Leto's expression. "You know, that girl you had an eye for was sad when you volunteered. Allyne, was it?"

Leto reddened. "I don't know about that."

"It's true. She was upset; saw it clear as day."

"That doesn't mean much, you know."

"Why else would she be upset? She had an eye on you right back, I'll bet anything."

Leto shrugged. "It's better this way."

"Why's that?"

"She deserves someone better."

"What nonsense. What could be better than a young man who offers himself up to almost certain death for the good of his family?"

Leto was silent for a moment, remembering Allyne, her pretty smile and dark hair. "She deserves someone who will stay."

Oter regarded Leto closely. "I guess I can't argue with that."

But despite it all, Leto smiled; an expression that was almost genuine, if unfamiliar. "Thanks, Oter. It's nice to think about them."

"Don't mention it," Oter said, smiling as well. "You may think that they're gone, that you inhabit different worlds now, but even if they were all to be killed tomorrow, they'd still live and be yours, in a way."

"How do you mean?"

Oter tapped a hard knuckle against Leto's skull. "You'd still have your memories. Nobody dies while they're still remembered."

It was a surprisingly hopeful sentiment, one Leto loved immediately. "You're right," he said, and his eyes burned. Suddenly it was hard to speak. "Thanks, Oter."

Oter waved away the thanks. "Aw, don't mention it."

They sat in amiable silence as they waited for the dinner bowls to be brought to their cell, and while they waited Leto balanced Oter's words. No matter what terrible things he'd have to do in the name of survival, there would always be his memories of Lea and Varania, Nat and Jin and Allyne and all the others, just where he'd left them. He'd have refuge in his memory regardless of what happened now, and no one could take it away.

A compliment of guards made their way to their cell, though Leto noticed their hands were empty. He felt a vague flicker of foreboding, noting the way the guards refused to meet his gaze. "Leto and Oter; you have been summoned to join Danarius the High Senator for a feast this evening," one said, his voice businesslike.

"How irregular," Oter remarked wryly.

The guards ignored him, fumbling with the lock on their cell. They filed out and followed the guards through the winding dormitory, and as they went Leto could not ignore the sick foreboding that curdled in his gut like sour meat.

He was familiar with the coliseum and been armed with a blade in which to defend himself. He had no such familiarity or defense at a human's feast, the showpiece of a man who might one day be his master. As they loaded him into a horse-drawn cart, he wished ineffectively for a weapon of any kind, anything to take into this unfamiliar amphitheater.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: Special thanks to Maddiefu, Bluerosebud423, mille libri, Catlover friendly but impressive, Th Paperclip, and Biofan for your amazing reviews, and to everyone else who has read, faved and followed this story. **

**I recently remembered all my unfinished Dragon Age stories and felt inspired to finish them. Those of you who are also reading To Be Free will hopefully be happy to know that an update for that story is in the works as well - so stay tuned!  
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**Feel free to leave me feedback in any form, because I love it all. Thanks for reading, everyone.  
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The cart lurched over a broken stone in the road, jostling Leto's already aching bones. His heart had traveled somewhere in the vicinity of his throat, making it impossible to swallow or breathe. He knew the look of Danarius' manse, and as it loomed closer, he felt oddly as if he approached the bloodied sand of the coliseum, that darkened den.

Beside him, Oter was motionless, his expression almost offensively assured. His gaze drifted to Leto's, and a smirk turned his lips. "Calm down," he muttered, too quietly for the guard and driver to hear. "This isn't the ring."

"Feels like it," Leto retorted quietly.

Oter let out a huff of breath. "Perhaps it is. But not in the way you'd expect."

"What do you mean?"

Oter's gaze became penetratingly shrewd in that instant, and though Leto would never be as foolish to underestimate the old man, he realized in that moment that the benefit of his experience was considerable. "The magisters are not warriors like you're familiar with. They play games. They speak out of both sides of their mouths, and often both are lies. It's a shadow game they play, one where the power is both the method and the prize. Do you understand?"

Leto shook his head. "No."

"You will. After tonight, I have a feeling that you will."

They lapsed into tight silence as they approached Danarius' estate, the stonework that looked as it had been carved from bone. Leto mulled over Oter's warning and the vague bitter hint of experience that resonated in his voice, tightened in his eyes. He'd never considered the purpose of the magisters; in his eyes, they were slave holders, cruel brutes that held his chains. He'd made a point of avoiding his old master whenever possible, and because he'd worked the docks nearly half his life, he'd been separated from that world that Oter spoke of.

Oter, as a bodyguard, had likely seen it firsthand. He'd probably even participated in the silent coups, the shadowed bids for prestige and power. Leto felt his unease deepen.

It was a terrible thought, but suddenly he found he'd rather walk into the coliseum ring naked with only his bare hands to defend himself that go through with this.

Danarius frightened him, however inexplicably. Indeed, Leto was very accustomed to the commonplace cruelty of the magisters - their harsh words, the bite of a whip on his back. He'd come to expect the hatred and revulsion on their faces when they looked at him, no more than a lowly slave. But Danarius looked at him with a benign smile, which left Leto wondering what he hid beneath it. What manner of cruelty did he conceal behind that measured expression? Sadism? Desire?

Not for the first time, Leto knew that he had made a terrible mistake when he offered himself to this contest. Whether he died in the field or lived as this man's slave, he was lost.

When they arrived at Danarius' estate, the guards ushered them from the cart and led them through the slave quarters. Leto feared that perhaps this was another trick, but Oter handled this detour without reaction. Catching Leto's expression, he shook his head. "They're going to dress us up," he said quietly. "They're not going to parade you around in burlap, smelling like blood and fish."

Why not? That's what he was. Dock-worker turned gladiator. Prettying him up was about as useful or necessary as dressing up a beast before it's killed and eaten. Clean, nice clothes weren't going to change what he was.

"You're going to need to get that under control," Oter commented.

"What?"

"That bitter expression. They won't like seeing that."

"Maybe they will," Leto argued. "Maybe they'll like that I dare to have a temper. That I have a character or personality. Because it's such a novelty, isn't it? A slave who thinks he's a man. How fascinating."

Oter's eyes had gone very wide. "Get that out of your system now. They guards may beat you if they hear you, but if you show a magister that kind of lip, you'll be killed, regardless of whatever small skill or fascination you think you have."

Leto bit down on his retort, chewing on his lip so hard that it broke skin and bled. The coppery taste of his own blood on his tongue galvanized him, in an odd way. It allowed him to brace himself against what he feared was coming. It allowed him to swallow his growing bitterness, which threatened to choke him at every turn.

The guards led them to a chamber in the back of the estate, where a group of slaves were waiting with the finest clothes Leto had ever seen. He wondered for a small moment if they were merely handoffs of Danarius' or his entourage, but as the slaves dressed them, Leto realized they'd been specifically tailored to fit an elf.

The grey tunic was real silk, embroidered with a swirling pattern of interlocking tendrils. They conjured a vision of patterns of blood in the sand. The line of the trouser was perfect, and the boots they gave him were made from the softest, most supple leather Leto had ever felt in his life.

The finery made him even more suspicious.

The shriek of the crowd in the coliseum seemed very far away from this place, this cushy estate resplendent with priceless artifacts and artwork in every hallway. Even the rugs were stitched and painted by a true master. Quendius had not been a lesser magister, but his riches paled in comparison to Danarius'. Leto's unease deepened.

"Nice, isn't it?" Oter remarked, pinching the fine sleeve of his shirt between his fingers. "I tell you, you've as good as won already, boy."

"I don't know," Leto muttered, but Oter cut him off quickly.

"Even if they bring a few other favorites here tonight, you're the one Danarius wants. He's going to do whatever he can to see that you win."

"How do you know?"

"Look at this," Oter said, gesturing around them. "I tell you; I've been around. I worked as a bodyguard for Quendius IV for almost his entire life, and I've never seen anything like what they're doing for you before. Besides," he said, tapping his chin. "I saw how he looked at you."

"How was that, now?"

"Like he saw something in the market that he really wanted; a fine piece of meat, or a nice jacket. Except this jacket can wield a sword better than anyone and inspire speechless fear into every magister in the Imperium."

"I don't know . . ."

"What you got today? Silence when the fights were over? No other slave won that. No other slave scared them so much that they couldn't enjoy the slaughter. Think about that."

And Leto did. It was all part of the shadow game Oter had mentioned; the silent, sneaky appeals for power. When he'd offered himself for the Imperium, he'd unwittingly thrown himself on the board, a pawn to be pushed about however they pleased.

The guards led them into the banquet hall, and it took every ounce of self-possession of Leto's to keep his jaw from hanging open at the sight. The room positively glittered, throwing light as if lit by the sun, though it had set long ago. The room was filled to the brim with more magisters than Leto had ever seen in all his days, clad in ornate robes and gazing about the room with expressions of affected boredom, as if the riches that surrounded them were merely triflings, and they had more at home.

When they caught sight of him, however, Leto saw their faces go pale, and though some of them tried gamely to keep up the ruse of disenchantment, they could not. And at that moment, Leto realized Oter was right. It was as if the competition was already over, and Danarius was parading his newest possession around for maximum effect.

"There he is," said the man himself, sweeping through his gathered guests as if he owned the world. "The Mad Wolf. What an incredible honor."

Leto kept his face dead, though he would have liked to recoil at those words. Danarius seemed to like the word 'honor' quite a bit. Leto didn't think he knew what it meant. None of these humans did.

"I realize you must be utterly exhausted after your ordeal today," Danarius was saying. "I'm so happy you are no worse for wear."

Leto bit his tongue. Was Danarius mocking him? Or did he honestly think that the absence of wounds meant that Leto had emerged unscathed? He still saw the sea of bodies around him, beckoning every time he closed his eyes. He still heard the deafening silence of the coliseum as he thrust his sword point first into the sand, where it weaved like a flag in the wind.

"Have you nothing to say, dear boy?" Danarius prompted kindly.

Leto swallowed. "You are kind to show me such consideration and honor," he ground out, the lie curdling on his tongue.

"So well-spoken, but I see what burns under those words," Danarius said, a slick smile pulling at his thin lips. "We've all seen the fury you swallow."

What was he supposed to say to this? Instead of fumbling over the wrong answer, Leto bent his head and kept his silence.

"And we're so thrilled to have the great Oter with us today, as well," Danarius crooned. "You're a credit to your master." Leto couldn't be sure, but he thought he heard the sickly sweet bite of sarcasm in his words.

"I'm equally thrilled to be included in these festivities," Oter said easily. "I echo the sentiments of my charge, in that it's a great honor to be invited to dine with the great and powerful Danarius."

"You've learned your place well, Oter of Quendius," Danarius returned. "If only every slave was as loyal as you."

"If only," Oter echoed. It seemed to Leto that his words were heavy with unspoken meaning.

Danarius turned to his guests, sweeping his arms grandly as if casting a spell on them. "Please, my guests. Enjoy the feast and entertainment, and if you have a moment, feel free to speak two these remarkable slaves. The old veteran and the rising star; how romantic, don't you agree?"

The guests muttered their grudging agreement.

"There may come a time when I no longer feel like sharing such delightful slaves, so if you're wise, you will take advantage of this opportunity to learn of them," Danarius said, and Leto did not imagine the hint of steel in his new master's voice.

With that final pronouncement, the feast began. Dozens of slaves emerged from the woodwork bearing platters of food, so sumptuous that he could smell it on the plate, even when they were well across the room. He knew he was supposed to be impressed when Danarius seated him at his right hand, like a true guest of honor, but all he felt was simmering anger at the spectacle, rage that while the magisters treated him with cautious respect, they ignored his fellow slaves, only turning their attention to the elves if they made a mistake.

He met the gaze of one of the slaves, a young girl with startlingly violet eyes. Though they looked nothing alike, he thought of his sister with a pang of loss.

Why did it feel like ten years since he'd seen her last? Curled up in her chair, thin hands tucked at her side, tendons stark against her pale skin. Her lips twitching downward. Tears dried on her cheeks.

This was for her. For Varania, and for his mother, who wasted away slowly in her drafty hut, with nothing and no one. Leto forgot his self-pity and anger, and instead focused on their faces, no longer gaunt but fattened up, their smiles happy and free. He thought of them with their own house and their own lives, and servants - servants, not slaves - to care for them.

"You're many miles away," Danarius commented, leaning on his elbow and gazing attentively at Leto. "Pray, share your thoughts with the rest of us."

His thoughts of family were for him alone; not these slavering fiends. Leto looked down at his hands and decided to lie. "I am thinking of the contest, master."

"Ah, my bloodthirsty wolf," Danarius said, pleased. "I must say again that your show this morning impressed me a great deal."

"I am glad to have done so," Leto muttered.

"Indeed. Who could have known that a simple dock-worker, slave to one of the lesser magisters of our mighty Imperium, would rise above his humble beginnings to become the Lyrium Warrior?"

"I haven't done so yet," Leto argued softly. "Master."

"Oh, but I have a good feeling about you, my boy. And you'll soon find that my feelings are always correct."

"As you say, master," Leto said, though he didn't believe him.

Across the table, Leto saw a flash cross Oter's eyes, but it was gone before he could properly mark it. He stuffed his mouth full of roast and chewed with rude abandon.

"So you must forgive my curiosity, my boy, but I find myself unable to contain my questions. If you'd be so kind to indulge me?"

The way Danarius spoke to Leto as if he was an equal, as if he had the freedom to refuse his answers, infuriated Leto to no small degree. They both knew he wasn't in the possession of his consent. Whatever Danarius asked of him, he was compelled to either obey or be punished. "I'm yours to command," Leto said dully. "Whatever you wish, I will give."

"I will hold you to that," Danarius said with a lascivious grin. Leto felt his stomach curl at the sight of it. "Now, I must know. Telandrius tells me you were one of the only slaves to volunteer for this contest, and I am positively dying of curiosity over what could have motivated a healthy, strong young man such as yourself to do such a thing?"

Leto looked up. "I- I don't know what -"

"Come now; don't be coy. Were you tempted by the glory, or did you leap at the chance to be rid of your bumbling fool of a master?"

The magisters within earshot of Danarius tittered behind their hands, their eyes betraying their vindictive pleasure as they watched the exchange.

"The - the glory," Leto lied badly, biting the inside of his cheek so hard that he tasted blood. He saw Oter shake his head infinitesimally, but before he could wonder what had frightened the old man so much, he felt Danarius' cold hand capture his chin, wrenching it so roughly that Leto feared his neck would snap.

"You're lying to me," Danarius said, his pale eyes narrowed. "I am a patient, kind master, but I do not tolerate lies. Speak the truth or live to regret your words."

Leto gasped as those cold fingers dug into his jaw, as if he hoped to crush the bone. "I- I -"

"Speak, my boy. You are among friends."

At this, the gathered magisters laughed loudly, their rude guffaws echoing through the room and bouncing off the high ceilings. A mad thought crossed Leto's mind as tears sprung to his eyes; their mocking laughter must have reached up to the very sky, the veiled seat of the Maker. "I mean to use my boon to free my mother and sister," Leto hissed. "Master."

"Ah! Truly you are a rare person," Danarius said, abruptly releasing Leto's chin. "To sacrifice your own life for the chance to set your family free. A rare man, indeed."

Leto narrowed his eyes, ignoring Oter's warning look. "What do you mean, the chance?" he said in a low voice. "If I win, I am given a boon."

"Yes, that is indeed true," Danarius said, bemused. "Perhaps the boon is the chance to become more powerful and respected than any slave in the Imperium."

"No," Leto argued, his voice rising. "'A boon of my choosing'; those are the words that were said."

"And what will you do if I lied, little boy?" Danarius said, craning closer.

Years of swallowing his temper came to horrible fruition at that moment, staring into the eyes of this horrible man. "Perhaps nothing," Leto hissed, incensed. "Perhaps everything. You've seen what I'm capable of."

"Oh, I have," Danarius said. "But you've yet to see what I'm capable of. Telandrius!" he called, clapping his hands together, as imperious as a king. "Bring me the little cook girl."

Telandrius bowed before ducking into the slaves' quarters, reemerging only minutes later with a thin, elven girl - seven years old at the most. Her thin face was bloodless with fear, and her eyes were wide as saucers. She trembled in Telandrius' grip.

Somehow, Leto knew exactly what Danarius planned. He turned to the magister, cold fear choking his heart. "Please, master. Forgive me," he begged. "Punish me, not the girl."

"It seems you understand already," Danarius said coldly. "But this is a lesson to you, my slave. I am a good and kind master, but I will not tolerate impudence in any form. And if you speak to me in such a way again, I will find your family and paint my home with their blood. I will stitch a robe out of their skin and wear it for the rest of my life, so that every day you serve me you will see me clothed in their bodies and despair."

He held out his hand, and for one breathless moment Leto hoped that whatever magic Danarius had to command would fail him, but in that next breath the little girl froze, her mouth wrenched open in a wordless scream. She began to convulse, and Leto watched in horror as her blood bubbled through her skin, dribbling out of her nose, her eyes, her mouth, until she was nothing but a bloodless, wasted husk on the cold stone floor.

Somewhere in the distance, he heard a woman wailing.

"Clean that disgusting filth up," Danarius hissed to his terrified slaves, and they rushed to obey him. One caressed the little girl's face as he took her up in his arms, and Leto saw tears track down his craggy face.

The rest of the banquet passed without Leto's notice. The dinner was cleared away and the entertainment brought out; two dozen young slave girls, dressed in wisps of silk, dainty bells jangling at their ankles. They danced, and though their dead faces betrayed nothing when the magisters grabbed at their breasts, Leto could not look away from their eyes, which seemed to him to be like two wounds from which they saw the world and all its horrors.

It was as if they were dead already.

Through it all, Danarius laughed. He laughed when he pulled a slave girl onto his lap, fondling beneath the folds of her dress. He laughed when the silk tore under his hands. He laughed when she squeaked in pain. He laughed when he dragged her away, his tongue sampling the tender skin of her neck. He laughed at her tears.

Leto said nothing, not when the magisters plied him for amusement, not when the guards led them away to their pushcart, to be brought back to their cage in the coliseum, not when Oter gently touched Leto's shoulder in a wordless gesture of support.

He knew only a few things for certain. He knew that he would win this tournament and pass into Danarius' house for good. He knew that he would free his family, free them from this terrible world of monsters in men's clothing. He knew that he would be infused with the magic that empowered the Lyrium Warrior, forged him from fleshy slave to furious legend. He would treasure that magic, cherish it.

He would use it to end Danarius' life.


End file.
